


Talk With Your Fingertips

by gallantrejoinder



Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, Hand & Finger Kink, Homelessness, I promise!, Love, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Pining, Sign Language, The Irish landscape as a metaphor for Feelings, Touch-Starved, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-15
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2019-08-01 21:14:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 29,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16291937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gallantrejoinder/pseuds/gallantrejoinder
Summary: He's homeless and at the end of his rope.Until he runs into a young man who won't stop talking and fills in every silence he's ever suffered.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note: I left it ambiguous as to the Mute was a member of the British or Irish army and the exact nature of his trauma. Hell, he could even be American considering Jon Bernthal.
> 
> Also, because this is a modern AU, I gave him a name! I’ve seen a few people in the tags calling him David/Davi? I’m not sure where that name originated in the fandom but it’s stuck with me, so I stuck with it! 
> 
> PS: I’m not Irish. But my beta reader is, so kind thanks to 192746aaa on Reddit for going over this fic to check the inaccuracies!

The Brotherhood of Our Lady Help of Christians Mental Healthcare Services is a far smaller and thinly funded operation than the Organisation of National Ex-Servicemen, but that’s why he’s chosen them. A tiny religious organisation which needs a new name and some less cramped headquarters is a hell of a lot less intimidating than some big fancy organisation for _veterans_. The problem with veteran organisations is that they all want him to _talk_ , to share what happened to him. As if it happened to him, instead of _him_ happening to everybody else. They throw around words and phrases like “post-traumatic stress” and “intermittent explosive disorder” and “suicidal”, but never come to any agreement about what exactly it is that’s wrong with him.

And that, of course, is the crux of the problem. He can’t talk.

Or won’t. He isn’t sure there’s a difference. One day after he came home, he stopped. He’d been getting quieter all the while, but he remembers the day he just decided to stop responding to customers and his manager. He was fired two days later, and felt a weight lift from his back as he spent the next two weeks in bed.

The weight dropped right back down again, though, when rent was due. The world didn’t stop functioning just because he did. And he didn’t have the money. He sent out some applications, tail between his legs, knowing he’d done something stupid. Got an interview. Showed up in his only suit.

And the man asked his name, and he realised he couldn’t speak.

It’s been months since then and he still hasn’t spoken. He’s afraid that if he does, something terrible will happen. He prays to a God he’s not sure he believes in and has a fanciful notion, in the back of his mind, that he has taken a vow of silence – a penance for the violence he is capable of. But of course that isn’t true. He’s sick. He needs to get better.

He needs, unwilling as he is to seek it out, help.

Without money to pay rent it wasn’t long before he got kicked out. He’s been drifting a little while now, but Autumn is setting in, and he knows that if he lets himself die on these streets in the Winter … well, it wouldn’t be so bad. It might be peaceful. Maybe he’ll see someone who loves him, like the old story about the little match girl. Really, the only thing stopping him is the knowledge that someone, somewhere has to find his body. He’s seen bodies. He doesn’t want someone to have to go through all that because of him. God help him, but what if it was a child?

So here he is, at the door of the Brotherhood of Our Lady Help of Christians Mental Healthcare Services home office, thinking that even if he could speak he wouldn’t be able to pronounce all that. It’s an older building, all brown brickwork and slightly lopsided doorways. In the window of the blue door, there’s a cheery but ancient looking poster that says _all welcome, come inside_. His hands start to shake.

“Oh, I’m so sorry – I had to lock it while I went for lunch – I swear, it doesn’t happen that often, just give me a minute –”

The sound of someone speaking just behind him makes him jump. He turns to see a flustered looking young man, maybe one of the university kids, struggling with an armful of shopping bags. He certainly looks as harried as a uni student. He juggles his bags while David stands back, staring, until he finds his keys and pushes forward to unlock the blue door. All the while, he talks.

“Don’t tell any of the brothers. Brother Ciarán would be so disappointed to know I’d left someone out in the cold, but I was starving – and Brother Rua is visiting his sister, and Brother Cathal is off volunteering at the working bee down at the primary school. They left me to play secretary, of course, but I’m not a qualified therapist – I’m only in my second year – so if you need crisis counselling, I’m afraid all I’ll have to offer you is some phone numbers.”

Finally, the lad runs out of steam.

“Oh, and I’m Diarmuid. My name, I mean.”

… Almost.

David stares at Diarmuid, standing on the doorstep, having set down his bags and packages over the course of his speech haphazardly around the doorway. He feels a little foolish, but gestures to his throat, trying to make Diarmuid understand that he has no use for a phone number.

But Diarmuid’s face lights up, and he immediately begins making rapid movements with his hands – it takes David a moment, but with a sinking feeling, he realises Diarmuid is trying to use sign language to communicate. He shakes his head, pointing to his throat again. Diarmuid slows to a stop.

“… Would you like a pen and paper?”

He nods, grateful, and Diarmuid finally remembers to let him inside.

The room just inside the doorway is tiny, and cluttered with old magazines, books, pamphlets, and a few mismatching chairs, tables, and shelves. There’s a desk in the back right corner, with a doorway beside it. A white linen curtain hangs over the doorway, and the smell of dust is everywhere.

It’s … cosy, he supposes.

Certainly it is warm. A space heater next to the desk has been left on and is humming quietly. Diarmuid darts behind the desk to pick up a paper and pen, and thrusts them into David’s hands enthusiastically. David stares at the tools for a moment, blinking, before finally thinking to scribble something on them.

_My name is David. I can’t speak. I’m homeless_.

He hands the paper to Diarmuid after that, unsure of what to add.

“David,” Diarmuid says, with a smile. “I’m sorry to hear that. Read that, I suppose? And you need help?”

He nods.

Diarmuid hums thoughtfully for a second, seeming to deliberate about what to do.

“Well … while the brothers are away … how about we start with a cup of tea?”

He nods again, and Diarmuid keeps smiling that warm smile. “Grand.”

David learns a lot about Diarmuid over tea. He learns firstly that Diarmuid takes his tea with just a splash of milk, as it should be. He learns secondly that Diarmuid’s university course relates to counselling and psychology, specialising in trauma. And thirdly, he learns that Diarmuid is very sneaky indeed.

“… And that’s why I ended up here. I hadn’t any friends in school and spent all my time volunteering here anyway, so it just seemed natural to spend my placement somewhere familiar. What did you do after university?”

He shakes his head, and writes a single word on the paper. _Army_. Then he slides it over to Diarmuid.

“Ah, I did wonder … I suppose that’s why you came here and not the hostel?”

He nods. The hostel is full anyway. And he doesn’t want to make them put up with his screaming, let alone put up with theirs.

“Well, we do have a room upstairs – for emergencies, mind, but perhaps … For a veteran …”

He blinks, and realises that without having to say a word, he’s revealing information about himself.

Diarmuid makes a few calls, continuing to chatter the whole time. He talks so much that David begins to thinks that he could make up for David’s silence entirely. David learns that Diarmuid is a fan of Doctor Who, and hoping for a new companion soon. He learns that Diarmuid has very strong opinions on the correct way to handle a malfunctioning laptop – apparently three sharp taps’ll do it on any model. He learns that Diarmuid is a Catholic, devoted, and completely sure of himself. David listens, and watches, and is amazed that in a world where people die and suffer and he cannot speak, there is someone like this. Someone untouched. Someone holy.

That’s a thought which floats through his head quite without warning, and makes him still, staring at Diarmuid as he pulls out papers and pens from various drawers and cupboards around the tiny kitchenette. A holy man – this kid, this student of the world who fills David’s silences as easily as blinking. It occurs to him that this whole situation is utterly bizarre, and himself no less for being led into it.

Diarmuid sets the papers down in front of him eventually, and he realises blankly that they’re forms – an agreement not to destroy the place as he must stay the night, that he’ll be there no longer than three, that he’ll provide identification and that he understands he has rights of confidentiality. A whole crock of bullshit that’s got absolutely nothing on the sheer number of forms he signed to be a damned grocery attendant. Even the army had nothing on Tesco.

So he pulls out his ID, signs away, and lets Diarmuid bring him upstairs to a bathroom which is tinier even than the kitchenette, attached to a room with a single, metal-framed bed. Diarmuid smiles and says it’s all his for the next three nights, and David stares at him while, unexpectedly, tears fill his eyes.

“Don’t worry about it,” Diarmuid says, and he claps him on the shoulder, all friendly-like.

David sits on the bed for a long time, thinking about the last time he was touched.

 

~

 

A couple of days, that’s all he spends there before being shuffled off to the nearest hostel for veterans. Two of the brothers come back to the home, and one – Rua – grumbles about Diarmuid letting in strangers, while the other, Ciarán, simply shakes his head, smiling. They take his information down and give him dinner. Breakfast and lunch the next day, too; simple bread rolls with salad and cheese. He wonders if they’re vegetarians. In all that time he doesn’t speak a word, just watching, observing how the home seems to function.

On the second day, Diarmuid returns to the home, and is the one who tells him that he’s to be sent off somewhere else, and so he goes. The next place is a proper hostel, tiny and crowded and filled with men as hollow-eyed as him. He doesn’t like it. But the streets were worse.

He wishes he could have stayed –

But that’s selfish, of course. A friendly face or two and he’s already morose for it.

So it’s to some surprise, when he walks out one day, shuffling through the streets for something to do, that he runs into Diarmuid again.

Quite literally, actually. He isn’t looking where he’s going and neither, it seems, is Diarmuid, who bumps right off him with a dazed look on his face, scrambling to remove his headphones from his head in time to apologise. When he sees who it is, though, his face breaks into the most dazzling and confusing smile.

“David! I was just thinking about you,” he says, eagerly.

David blinks. His expression must say it all.

“Not – in a creepy way, or anything. I was jut wondering how you were getting on,” Diarmuid continues, looking flustered. “I was hoping to run down to the hostel when I had a minute – but classes, you understand. If I have to write another essay about Protestantism, I swear, I’ll give up and just join ‘em.”

He gives Diarmuid a questioning look, and it takes a moment, but Diarmuid understands the question in a few seconds.

“Oh! Religious studies – that’s what I’m majoring in. That and social work. I’m thinking about joining the brotherhood.”

His eyebrows rise high on his face, and Diarmuid laughs.

“I know – I’ve heard it all before, I promise. No decisions made yet, but still – I’ve always been drawn to it. Never had any friends my own age. The brothers have always been kind, and maybe that’s all the sign you need, you know?”

Maybe it is. David wouldn’t know. He isn’t sure what he believes anymore. Or if he ever did.

“– Which is why I thought I could maybe help with that?”

David shakes his head, realising that Diarmuid has been speaking this whole time, without him hearing a word. Fortunately, Diarmuid seems to use that strange almost-telepathy of his to figure out what he means by it.

“I said,” he explains, smiling, “would you like to learn sign language? I’m not a native speaker, I warn you. I learned it for my course – part of the social stuff; actually, to tell the truth, I started learning in school. But I’m nearly fluent, and it would be better than nothing, right?”

David thinks about it. Diarmuid doesn’t press, simply looking at him patiently. David thinks about it some more.

He can’t go without some form of communication forever. And as he won’t be speaking anytime soon, and he cannot write all the time … Maybe. He still doesn’t particularly want to speak, even in this way, but …

He looks down, at Diarmuid’s hands. Clever hands. Hands which would teach him, eagerly, if he gave them the chance. If he gave Diarmuid a chance.

He nods, just a tilt of the head, really, and Diarmuid breaks into an excited grin.

“Really?”

He nods again, feeling embarrassed. There’s nothing to be excited for. He’s a broken old soldier with nothing to offer and everything to take away.

“Fantastic! Okay, here’s my number – I don’t know if you have a phone, but either way, it’ll be good to have – what do you say we meet up next Monday? At the home – same time as last?”

The last time they’d met was really the _first_ time they’d met, but he nods once again, and the time is set. Diarmuid takes his leave not long after, but he lets David walk him along the road for a bit first, and David listens, listens, listens.


	2. Chapter 2

The next Monday, he shows up on the doorstep of the home as awkward and lost as he was the first time. The only difference this time is that is Diarmuid is there to meet him today. He greets David enthusiastically, and lets them both in with little preamble. David pretends that he isn’t nervous, feeling foolish, thinking _why should he waste his time on you_ , until they’re both in the little back room again, settled in two armchairs with a steaming pot of tea between them. And then he lets himself feel terrified.

“So – I thought we could start with the alphabet,” Diarmuid offers.

He nods. It’s as good a place as any to begin.

“It’s fairly simple – the same twenty-six letters, and we’ll learn them in the same order as school, so don’t worry about that. The alphabet is a slow way to sign but if you practise, you’ll get better – especially once you start learning full words and phrases and so on. And for now, this’ll help you communicate anything essential.”

He looks on, uncomfortable and expectant. Diarmuid takes that as his signal to begin.

“All right, so – a lot of the signs will look like their letters – so that’s something to look out for. That said, A is basically like a fist – see, the way I’m holding it up, like –”

David watches closely as Diarmuid holds his fist up, thumb straight against his forefinger, pointing towards the sky. He tries to copy it as best he can.

“That’s it – just make sure you hold your finger towards yourself – there’s other signs which are closed off like this, you have to be sure about which one you’re doing. Good!”

David puts his hand down, and Diarmuid launches straight into the next letter.

“Okay, B. B is four fingers to the sky – and the thumb across – see?”

He does. He watches as Diarmuid moves his hands fluidly around in the air, tracing the movements with his eyes.

“A – B – A – B. You try.”

A fist, and four fingers in the air. Once and again. He feels – not foolish, like he thought he might. He feels like he’s speaking, almost, but without the hesitation that stops his throat. He lowers his hands, slowly, and looks up at Diarmuid, unsure. But Diarmuid looks pleased.

“Very good. All right, now, this one is pretty easy – I read somewhere it’s a swear word in a different country’s sign language, but I can’t remember which one. You just hold your hand up like a C. Got it?”

He’s right. C is easy. But he raises an eyebrow, glancing between the shape of the letter and Diarmuid’s face. It takes Diarmuid a moment, but he goes over what he said in his head, and turns sheepish.

“Ah – well, apparently it means ‘cunt’,” Diarmuid says, whispering the last. “But don’t quote me on that.”

David almost cracks a grin at that.

“D’s quite simple – but careful to get your thumb between your index and middle fingers – there you go. From the top again, A – B – C – D. All right now, E. Remember how I said there were a lot of similar signs? E looks like A, a bit. A fist, but your thumb is over your middle two fingers – like this.”

And so they go on, learning every letter, then repeating all the ones that came before it. Or so they _would_ keep on, except then they get to the letter T, and David cannot understand what Diarmuid is doing with his hand no matter how patiently Diarmuid explains it. The sign looks like three others that came before it, and David gives a short, sharp sigh, leaning back in the chair in frustration. He feels like a child in school again, unable to comprehend something supposed to be so simple.

“Here,” Diarmuid says, gently. “Just –”

And he takes himself out of the chair, and sits down on the arm of David’s armchair instead. David prickles to have someone sitting so close. It stirs something anxious inside him, setting him on high alert. But then Diarmuid reaches over to where his hands are clasped together on his chest, and takes his right hand, and everything inside David suddenly feels quite still. Still like a predator, waiting to pounce; still like prey, hiding silently in the underbrush.

Diarmuid folds over his fingers, not quite able to cover David’s hand since his are smaller. Pinky, ring, and middle. He straightens David’s thumb against them, and then carefully takes David’s index finger and folds it over the thumb.

“There,” Diarmuid says, without removing his hands. “Perfect.”

David ought to be looking, but he isn’t. Every other sense is overwhelmed with the one – with touch. Two hands holding his, capable hands with bony knuckles and soft palms. One at his wrist. The other enveloping the back of his hand.

Diarmuid lets go.

“Sorry,” he says, a little quickly, before stepping away again. He sits back down in the chair facing David. “Right, so that’s T. Now, U is easy – remember it rhymes with two!”

Diarmuid doesn’t touch him again for the rest of the afternoon, not even to usher him out politely when it starts getting late, with a smile and a promise to reconvene on Tuesday. David watches him and watches him, but never, for one second, does Diarmuid betray any sign that what occurred was in any way unusual. In any way important.

 

~

 

Tuesday comes too slowly. He sits around while men like him pace up and down the room, the hall, the street. He closes his eyes and pretends he isn’t staying in a hostel. He makes himself forget the colour of the walls and the smell of the stale food. He wanders the streets and communicates, via short written statements, with a volunteer who sighs with impatience at his reticence and vacant eyes. He hears her mention social services – something about housing, and the HSE, but then she says the words “mental health”, and he just about tunes out at that point. She leaves pretty soon after, and he doesn’t bother to wave her goodbye. He can’t bring himself to lift his hands, and he lays down on the tiny, filthy couch they’ve got in the common room for a long time.

But the day must dawn as it always does, and the next day, he trudges his way across the city until he finds the little blue door hidden away amongst the brown bricks. Before he even has the chance to knock, Diarmuid flings open the door, looking a little sheepish.

“Hello,” he says, for some unknown reason giving him a thumbs up. “Sorry –” He rubs his chest, for some reason – “I just saw you coming up, and I was practising my ISL so we could start conversing properly, and I just came to open the door too quickly.”

And now his hands are a flurry of movement that make David feel dizzy at the sight. He gives Diarmuid a quizzical look, and Diamuid looks apologetic in return.

“Ah – I though if we really want to communicate, we ought to practise all the time. But I don’t expect _you_ to start with me,” he explains, moving his hands a little more slowly, though no less incomprehensibly.

David nods, half-shrugging, as if to say, _whatever you want_. Diarmuid is the expert after all, and if he’s going to waste his time on David, David cannot complain at exactly how he does it.

“In you come, then,” Diarmuid prompts, gesturing towards the door. All the while he natters on, talking about the weather, his university work, the right kind of tea for an afternoon as mournful and grey as this. David listens and thinks that at least he doesn’t have to practise using his own ISL, considering how quickly Diarmuid’s hands flutter.

Finally, they are seated in the back room once more, a pot of tea between them again, and David finds it funny how routine this is already beginning to feel. Strangely familiar, and jarringly not, for he’s rarely experienced it.

“Now. Show me your ABCs, then – I need to know what you remember.”

Feeling foolish, David obeys, slowly signing through the alphabet. He stumbles once or twice – but surprisingly, he remembers all of it, given time to think. Diarmuid looks delighted, and it’s difficult not to feel proud of himself for memorising the sequence.

Of course, even children are supposed to be able to do this. So there’s not really that much to be proud of.

“Brilliant,” Diarmuid breathes, his hands still gesturing. “We can get straight on to spelling out simple words, then – and greetings and simple phrases too by the end of the day, I think. It’s surprisingly easy to learn once you start practising, don’t you think?”

David nods. He has to admit he’d thought it would be harder.

“Then we’ll start by signing just the things in this room – you watch me, and then try to communicate something to me back.”

They go back and forth in that manner for the next half hour or so, before Diarmuid calls for a change of pace. At that point, it becomes all about greetings and polite small talk – he learns _how are you, I’m well, I’m cold, I’m warm, happy, sad, tired, it’s nice to meet you, the weather is dreadful_. The words don’t sit right with him. He can’t picture himself ever making talk like this, not even with Diarmuid, who he’s spoken more towards – well, _spoken_ in a manner of _speaking_ – than anyone since he came to Dublin. Finally, he sets his hands down firmly, and Diarmuid looks at him, surprise evident on his face.

He signs slowly – fingerspelling each word.

_N-O M-O-R-E S-M-A-L-L T-A-L-K. W-O-N-T U-S-E I-T_.

He lowers his hands, and waits for Diarmuid to get cross. He dreads the inevitable – yet entirely justified – offense that Diarmuid must take at his rejection of this kindness. But Diarmuid knits his eyebrows together, looking thoughtful as he glances between David’s face and his hands.

“All right,” he says, softly. “All right. I’ll figure out something different for our next lesson. How about that?”

David nods, relieved. He wouldn’t have blamed Diarmuid for being irritated with him, but –

Well, the sorry truth is that Diarmuid is the closest thing he has to a friend, and even as miserable and self-loathing as he is, he’s too selfish to give that up just yet.

The lesson ends soon after, and Diarmuid tells him to come on Thursday morning, and bring something warm to wear. When he raises his eyebrows at the request, Diarmuid just grins.

“I’ve had an idea. But I’d like it to be a surprise, if that’s all right.”

David shakes his head, bewildered, but lets the corner of his mouth turn up, to show Diarmuid he accepts his proposal.

 

~

 

Thursday comes even more slowly than Tuesday did, but as he brushes his teeth that morning, David feels a thrill of anticipation he almost doesn’t recognise at first. When he does, he shakes his head at himself, earning a suspicious glance from his roommate. But he can’t help it – he’s been on a few dates in his life, but this, surely, doesn’t count. So there’s no need for his stomach to feel the confusion.

He’s a lonely man and he knows it, but this is just pathetic.

Still, he tugs and smoothes and combs and dresses himself until he’s presentable, and walks to the home again. One gift of both his time in the army and his time on the streets is his ability to walk just about anywhere. And as he’s not keeping up with a fitness regime anymore, it can’t hurt to help keep him in shape.

This time, Diarmuid is waiting for him outside the blue door, but he makes no move to open it upon seeing David – he only waves a greeting, and shoves his hands back into his pockets. David can’t blame him; it’s getting colder all the time and Diarmuid has no gloves on.

_For my sake_ , David realises, with a sweet-sharp sense of gratitude. So that he can keep teaching David the signs without anything in the way.

“Morning!”

David nods in lieu of doing the proper sign, feeling self-conscious. But Diarmuid, if he notices, doesn’t comment.

“So, we’re not staying in today. I got you a spare travel card – we’ll be taking the train in. Is that okay?”

David nods again, intrigued despite himself.

_S-U-R-P-R-I-S-E_ , he signs, questioning.

Diarmuid nods, looking delighted – though whether that’s because David actually bothered to sign, or because he really just loves surprising people that much, David can’t tell.

They fall into step, making their way to the local station. On the way to wherever they’re going, Diarmuid continues to sign and talk, mostly about his university work – and a little about the monks, too, whose names David is finally beginning to learn. Brother Rua and Cathal are the youngest of the group – perhaps of any group of monks in Ireland; David can’t believe there’s anyone left still trying to join – and Brother Ciarán is their abbot. Diarmuid talks about him with such fondness, such open respect and obvious love, that it’s hard for David not to wonder about Diarmuid’s family. What must they think of a young man like him, with all the opportunities in the world before him, throwing it all away to join a dying order of monks, totally out of step with the modern world? Diarmuid can’t really read his mind, though, and David certainly doesn’t feel like signing to ask – so the subject passes unremarked upon.

They get off at the Upper Luas stop, and Diarmuid leads them along the broad road outside, deftly weaving between pedestrians and busses, every which way. They turn down a road and then an alley with cobblestones under their feet, and before David knows it, they’re in the middle of a market – sellers calling in his ears, and rich smells wafting through the air, awakening his appetite. He looks around, slowly taking it all in – so it’s a moment or two before he realises that Diarmuid’s watching him, waiting for his reaction.

He gives an approving nod, and Diarmuid looks pleased.

“The Moore Street market,” he explains, gesturing at the stalls. “One of the few ones on in the middle of the week.”

David nods again. He’s not been to this part of the city before – strange to think, considering how much of the city he’s walked over. He’s completely lost now, but he doesn’t mind. Diarmuid will get them both through.

“Shall we start with some vegetables?” Diarmuid jerks a thumb towards the nearest vendor, where an array of colourful fruits and vegetables are laid out for perusal.

David nods.

 “This’ll be helpful for your grocery list if nothing else,” Diarmuid jokes, and David doesn’t really know whether to remind him that he has no money. “Now, I’m going to pick my favourites first – but let me know if you want something else.”

They go through the vegetables, Diarmuid carefully demonstrating the sign for each, while the vendor scrolls through her phone, ignoring them. They get to the broccoli and David points at it, raising his eyebrows.

“ _Broccoli_?” Diarmuid makes a noise of disgust. “You – broccoli? _Broccoli_?”

Diarmuid’s adamant disdain for the vegetable makes David’s mouth quirk without his permission, as he does his best to look innocent at Diarmuid’s revolted face.

“I almost don’t want to show you the sign for it. I want the record to show I’m against this nonsense. Utterly against it.”

David shakes his head, rolling his eyes. But Diarmuid keeps his promise and shows him all the signs he’ll need, making him repeat back the ones for the vegetables and fruits he shows actual interest in.

Diarmuid buys a few for himself, tucking them away into a paper bag the vendor hands over. From there, they continue down the market, looking over honey and spices, nuts and hot cider. David tries some hipster-y, raw vegan chocolate. It’s actually quite good, and Diarmuid buys a block, chattering away all the while about how lovely it is nowadays that you can find ethical produce so easily. It doesn’t seem to occur to Diarmuid that he’s talking like a man three times his age, but David … David doesn’t really care. It’s a little endearing, truth be told – the way Diarmuid’s speech reflects all the old monks he spends his time with, while he still steps lightly and moves his hands about like someone much younger.

They end up finding a café to eat a proper meal at once they’ve exhausted all the stalls. David hesitates for a moment when Diarmuid first suggests it, suddenly realising he has no money to spend, but Diarmuid waves him off before he even has a chance to sign his concern.

“My treat,” he says, looking absurdly earnest, as if he isn’t already doing David a massive favour. “Really – I want to sit down for a while, and I’ve got extra money from dear old mother’s birthday gift.”

Finally, David relents, sighing deeply, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. Diarmuid leads them towards some narrow little place with exposed brick and ineffective lightbulbs everywhere. They order some fish and chips. _Nothing fancy here_ , David thinks.

Diarmuid pauses in his talking for a moment to check his phone, and in the ensuing silence, David studies his face. Diarmuid had mentioned –

“Ugh, _mum_ ,” he mutters, sliding his phone back into his pocket.

When he looks up, David raises his hands of his own volition for the second time that day.

(Lessons don’t count. That’s just parroting Diarmuid. But if he wants to count Diarmuid as – as a friend, maybe –)

_M-U-M_ , he signs. A question.

Diarmuid, for the first time in their entire acquaintance, falls silent. Unsure.

David wants to reassure him. But how to phrase it? He has to make it short so he has time to spell it out –

“Well, I usually call her mother, to be honest. But it’s hard to break the habits you form in childhood.”

David nods, uncertain. He watches Diarmuid’s face carefully as it twitches, changes. The light is gone from his eyes, and there’s an unhappy slant to his mouth.

“She just – well, dad died when I was just a kid. Mum’s just never really been there since, you know? It’s not bad, or anything. She just communicates better with money than words. But people have it so much worse, I’m not complaining. Just one of those things.”

David doesn’t know what his face is doing, but he can feel his heart break a little. Diarmuid, in all their time together, has never been anything less than a ray of light – something warm and gentle and surprisingly rare in the modern world. To think that his own mother doesn’t take the time to see it, to nurture that light – it angers David, angers him like he hasn’t felt in quite some time, since before he stopped speaking.

But that’s a dangerous road to go down. He can’t be angry like that around Diarmuid – he _won’t_.

“Anyway. I’m managing an apartment within city limits thanks to her, so … I really can’t complain.”

David can’t stand it. He shakes his head vehemently, and without thinking, places a hand on Diarmuid’s arm where it rests on the table between them.

It’s foolishness. It is utter, utter idiocy on his part to read anything into the way Diarmuid stares at his hand, mouth parted just slightly, like he’s surprised.

But David couldn’t stand the way his throat would not allow him to comfort Diarmuid; comfort him in the way a normal friend – _acquaintance_ – would, with the right words and a gentle tone. So instead his hand rests against Diarmuid’s arm, a thumb stroking the inside of his wrist, over Diarmuid’s hoodie.

“Thanks,” Diarmuid says, eventually. His voice is quiet, and he raises a hand to his chin before lowering it again. Still signing to demonstrate, but there’s no need – David remembers that one already, because it looks like a kiss.

They don’t speak of it for the rest of the afternoon. But he thinks of it, thinks of how he was able to comfort Diarmuid even without words to aid him, and it soothes something inside him to know that he is capable of something almost like tenderness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know EXTREMELY rudimentary Auslan, because my partner has nonverbal episodes – this is limited to the alphabet and some rudimentary signs like “cold”, “warm”, “pain”, “loud”, etc. I don’t know Irish Sign Language so I’m going off what the [internet](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dC7i49cZ2sU&list=PL664417CC2E4E0AF9) told me, my apologies to those who know ISL better than me! Feel free to critique! Also, it's quite easy to learn the alphabet in my experience - I know it by sight with hardly any practice, so, David learnt it pretty quickly too.
> 
> ... And C does not mean cunt in Auslan. But Diarmuid doesn't know that.
> 
> I feel like the Mute would still be reticent even with ISL under his belt so ... yeah. Just because he can communicate doesn't mean he always will. He'll find his own way, though.
> 
> I have never been to the Moore street market, but it looks lovely on Google street view - I'll have to go sometime. When I have money. Ahaha. Haha. Ha.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for hand wounds and a panic/rage attack.

David really ought to know better than to show faith that his miserable life might, in some small measure, be in the process of a smooth transition into improvement. He doesn’t know better though, for the same reason that despite everything that’s happened to him, he still went to a religious organisation first. That tiny speck of something which makes him hope – whether it’s God, or himself, or some unnameable instinct of evolution demanding that he preserve himself – it keeps him alive, keeps him going. It also makes falling all the more painful when he does.

The lessons with Diarmuid have been going well, and he’s starting to piece together his own sentences now – however short they may be, however long it takes to sign them. Diarmuid is as patient as a saint, and never forces him to learn more than he needs to.  He’s grateful for that – Diarmuid being the only person in his life who doesn’t force him to speak.

The housing situation doesn’t look to be improving any time soon, which is good, because it means he doesn’t have to work yet, but bad because … well, because he’s still bloody homeless. He still has to stay in the hostel. The bleak, pathetic hostel full of miserable people who do nothing but drag each other down, or mercifully ignore one another.

But the lessons are going well. The lessons are what he has, and he’s not about to complain about his life when he’s got them, and they are –

Perfect.

And then he fucks them all up.

The lesson today is on utensils and the kitchen. The previous three lessons have been on grammar, grammar, and grammar again, so he’s grateful for the break. In the tiny kitchenette, they stand, constantly bumping into one another since Diarmuid cannot stand still and David is far too big for the tiny space. Ostensibly, they’re cooking a simple pasta together, but really Diarmuid’s doing most of the work – David’s just helping by stirring the pot occasionally or chopping some vegetables with the blunt knives from the kitchen drawer.

Christ, he should have just asked to stir. Putting a knife in his hands is dangerous.

But the knife was in his hands, _is_ in his hands, and he slips. He cuts the flesh beneath his left forefinger, sticks the knife right in as it slides through the lemon in his hand. For a fraction of a second, there is no pain, nothing – and then it hits – the fact that the knife is in his hand; the knife is _in his hand_ and it hurts, he must have felt so much worse before but this _hurts_ and he wasn’t expecting it and it _hurts_ –

With a sort of strangled noise wrenched from his throat, he yanks the knife back. It clatters as it lands in the sink, and immediately, the wound in his palm begins to sting, and bleed. He must have hit something important, because the blood is everywhere – it flows like water, covering his hand. There is a ringing in his ears. Someone is saying his name, and it makes him angry, makes him furious – he doesn’t want to be touched, doesn’t want to be seen – he wants to be alone and away and he wants to hurt something like he’s hurting –

“David –”

No, he doesn’t want to calm down, he doesn’t want to _be here_ –

It isn’t safe and he wants to _hit_ something –

It takes probably about ten minutes for him to come back to himself. It doesn’t feel like ten minutes.

He takes stock. His hand hurts. Can’t look at it. Blood will make him panic again. His eyes are sore – maybe he was crying – his cheek are wet – oh, he’s _still_ crying. He’s – where is he? He’s in a house. He’s in … He’s … _Dublin_. There’s a man’s voice. A stranger found him. And it’s coming back more quickly now … He hurt his hand quite badly, in the kitchen. The kitchen of the brotherhood. Someone is speaking. He wants to reply. He can’t remember how.

The man is …

_Diarmuid_. And David needs to open his eyes now, and face what he’s done.

Diarmuid’s face is before him. He’s murmuring soft words, words intended to reassure. Diarmuid clearly isn’t sure what he needs – just keeps telling him it’s okay and he’s safe. But David knows that _he’s_ safe. He wants to know if _Diarmuid_ is safe from him.

Diarmuid has no cuts and bruises that David can see. He isn’t holding his side or arms in a manner which might suggest he’s been injured where David can’t see. But David knows he threw something – he glances around the room – no tables or chairs are smashed, but the chopping board is on the floor. In two pieces.

A sound comes from him, small and wounded, at the sight. He must have scared Diarmuid.

“It’s all right. David, can you look at me? It’s all right. We’re fine. Can you give me your hand? I just need to put pressure on the wound. It’s okay, we’ll just do it one step at a time.”

David turns back to Diarmuid. There’s a tiny crease in his forehead of worry, but he’s doing his best to smile at David, to reassure him. That’s … good. That means he’s not so scared that he ran away.

He holds out his hand. Diarmuid takes it, producing a paper towel from somewhere to press against the wound. David flinches at the pain, but he’s so tired it barely registers on his face. Diarmuid cradles his wrist gently, and that’s a balm enough of its own. He avoids looking at the hand though – too much blood still.

The next few minutes pass numbly by him. Diarmuid fetches some antiseptic and a couple of butterfly bandages from a medicine cabinet hidden beneath the front desk outside, once he’s sure that David will be all right on his own for a minute. David’s gratitude for the gesture of kindness is pathetic, but then, the very fact that he’s found himself craving the affection of someone so – so young, and so vibrant, is pathetic enough on its own.

In a few minutes, the wound is clean, and as Diarmuid disappears again to put the remains of the bandaids in a bin, David has the chance to look at his wound. The lemon must have done it, made the pain that much worse. He feels foolish. The cut is not large – it’s quite small, but deep, and a little fat is showing. He stops looking as nausea overcomes him.

“Do you … do you want to tell me what happened?”

Diarmuid is kneeling before him again. David forces himself to look Diarmuid in the face.

He shakes his head.

“Okay,” Diarmuid says, patient as always. “Then how about you sit down at the table, and I’ll finish dinner, and we’ll just eat together, hey? How’s that sound?”

David nods. It’s all he can do right now.

They eat dinner together in silence. Diarmuid keeps stealing little worried glances at him, concern evident in every frown he throws David’s way. David doesn’t have it in him to comfort Diarmuid. He just wants to sleep. But he doesn’t want to go back to the hostel. He wants to go … home.

He doesn’t have a home.

That’s the _definition_ of homeless.

He puts his head in his hands, and Diarmuid makes a worried noise.

“Do you want to leave?”

He shakes his head, still not looking up.

“Do you … want to stay here? I’m sure, if I texted Ciarán …”

He shakes his head again. He doesn’t want to be alone. He wants …

There is a silence, drawn out by the tension in the air, Diarmuid desperately thinking and David quietly despairing of himself.

“Do you want to come home with me?”

David looks up in shock.

Diarmuid’s expression is nervous, perhaps moreso than his suggestion really warrants, considering David is the one who would be imposing. David frowns, and finally remembers his hands.

_S-U-R-E_?

Diarmuid nods.

“I told you. My mother pays for a flat. It’s only small – but I’ve got a spare room, more like a closet. I don’t … I’m sorry, maybe I’m overstepping but I feel like … you don’t want to be alone?”

David tilts his head, admitting the truth. Diarmuid, though, only looks relieved.

“Then let’s get going,” he says, and they do.

The next day, David will actually pay attention to Diarmuid’s tiny flat – the brown bricks, the mostly clean, beige and white rooms, the frankly shocking state of the kitchen sink. He’ll ponder yet again what a young man like Diarmuid is doing so isolated from other lads like himself, even down to living alone, in a flat that looks like it was designed for a middle aged businessman who’s never at home and has no family.

But tonight, he takes the spare room, accepts Diarmuid’s apologies for the haphazard stack of books and video games in the corner, and goes to bed. He listens to Diarmuid shower across the flat, rummage around his room for a bit, and then fall quiet, asleep. And only when he is certain of that, does he allow himself to sleep.

 

~

 

In the end, Diarmuid doesn’t treat what happened like it’s unusual or important in any way. They both rise early, though Diarmuid does so with a little less grace, looking bleary-eyed and messy-haired until he stumbles through making himself a pot of tea. David sits awkwardly at the kitchen table as he does, and when Diarmuid starts looking a little more awake, he notices, and says _it’s okay_. It’s all right for him to be here. Some of the acid sending uncomfortable shocks through David’s ribcage recedes.

_Sorry_ , he signs. One of the words he took to heart.

“It’s all right,” Diarmuid says, shaking his head. “You don’t owe me an apology. We’re fine.”

They eat breakfast together until Diarmuid has to leave for class. A couple of days later they meet for another lesson, and that’s that.

The lessons continue as well as they had done before, David picking up more and more by the day. He can construct rudimentary sentences now, though his grammar isn’t fantastic, considering how different ISL is from regular English in that regard. He grumbles about it and Diarmuid winces, admitting that he’s not the best teacher for this part, it took him a while to get through as well. Still. It’s progress. And probably for the best, too, since the social worker came back and has been making noises about him going back to work if he can.

He’d given her a flat look letting her know that work would not be possible for some time. To her credit, she’d looked a little embarrassed and admitted that she had to ask.

One day, Diarmuid invites David back to his flat again. Just casually, tacked on to the end of a conversation they’d been having (well – Diarmuid has been having, at least,) about whether or not rebooting The Lion King counts as 3D animation or live action.

“Well, look. My old lit professor used to say that when you’re in doubt, go back to the source. Do you want to rewatch the original? I’ve got a download on my laptop – no TV, but still, if you don’t mind a tiny screen?”

David blinks. It’s four in the afternoon – it’ll be dark before soon, and he ought to be getting back to the hostel soon. But Diarmuid looks eager, almost, to have him over again …

He nods his assent.

They spend that evening rewatching the classic, and it’s good. Better than he remembered – and he’d seen in in theatres when it came out. Diarmuid tears up a little when Mufasa dies, and he finds himself doing the same. Sitting on Diarmuid’s bed with him, watching the laptop screen light up the room, makes him feel like a teenager again – though they had tiny TVs, then, not thin laptops. Diarmuid’s probably used to this form of … hanging out.

Afterwards, Diarmuid insists on ordering Thai, arguing that he’s too tired to cook and David may as well stay. David watches, horrified, as Diarmuid orders extra spicy hokkien noodles. For himself, he points, stone-faced, to the simple Tom Yum rice, shaking his head at the way Diarmuid rolls his eyes and mutters, _boring_.

It’s while they’re eating that Diarmuid says something that makes David drop his fork.

“God, I must have been about seven or eight when I first saw that movie. They did a tenth anniversary re-release at the cinema and my mate’s mum took us all along to see it. I think she did it to traumatise us all, to be honest with you.”

David stops chewing and frowns.

_You … seven_? He signs, confused.

“Or eight,” Diarmuid nods. “I mean, it came out in 1994, and I was born in 1997. Never got the chance to see it originally.”

Jesus _Christ_ , but Diarmuid’s young.

“Are you okay?” Diarmuid seems to sense he’s said something to disturb him.

_You are young_ , he signs, haltingly. _Very young. I am old_.

Diarmuid suddenly focuses very hard on his noodles, stirring them with his chopsticks.

“Well, I … I mean I’ve never really …” He moves his mouth unhappily. “I’ve never really had many friends my own age. One or two. Here and there. I don’t know. Socially speaking, I’m not sure I ever … developed properly. I always had friends who were a few years below or above me. Until I got to high school, anyway. Then it became this weird thing. And then I started hanging about the brothers, so … here I am. Do you … mind? That I’m younger?”

_Mind_ that _he’s_ younger. As if _that’s_ the problem. It’s David – _David_ who should be making friends his own age, going to group therapy and veteran meetings and the like. And instead all he’s done is find some young lad with his whole life ahead of him to cling onto like a life raft, drag down into his pathetic life.

_No_ , he signs. _Me. The problem_.

“You’re not a problem!” Diarmuid looks horrified, and he sets his food down on the table, leaning forward in his seat. “David, you’re – you’re pretty much one of my only friends right now.”

Diarmuid looks down immediately after he says it, as if he’s ashamed. David’s heart aches at the sight – how lonely must Diarmuid have been?

David rises from the table, eyes scanning the kitchen. His signing isn’t good enough, right now. He needs a pen and paper. He spots both near the doorway on the end of the bench, and scribbles quickly, before pushing the note towards a bewildered Diarmuid.

_You’re fine, Diarmuid. If it makes you feel better, you are my only friend_.

Diarmuid looks at the note for a long moment. But then he cracks a smile.

“I don’t know,” he says, hesitantly, “Ciarán did ask about you the other day.”

Something almost like a laugh but more of a wheeze forces itself out of David’s throat, and the look on Diarmuid’s face at the noise only makes it worse. Before long, they are laughing together, and not long after that –

David finds himself sleeping in Diarmuid’s spare room once more, more peacefully than he has since only God knows when.

 

~

 

Weeks pass in much the same manner. David visits Diarmuid at home rather than at _the_ home more and more often. They watch films, mostly, or practice signing. The latter is still difficult, but he can do it – and upon his next visit with HSE, he even tries signing his information. Doesn’t help, because the social worker doesn’t speak ISL. But he tried. And Diarmuid’s enthusiastic reaction upon hearing about it makes it worthwhile.

It occurs to him one day that he’s spending more time at Diarmuid’s than the hostel these days. He should feel … guilty. He does, to a point. He craves some form of human affection and he’s sure as hell not getting it at the hostel. It’s natural that he should want to spend time around his only friend.

To a point.

That’s why today he intends to stay at the home, rather than return with Diarmuid to his flat. He won’t take advantage – just because he hasn’t got a cent to his name, doesn’t mean he can’t take care of himself. When he walks into the home today, though, Diarmuid isn’t there to greet him – only Brother Ciarán.

That’s not unusual in and of itself. David has passed the monks several times around, it’s just that Diarmuid had been with him every other time. Which makes this … strange.

“Afternoon,” Brother Ciarán says, signing along with his words. David blinks at the discovery that Ciarán can sign as well. “Diarmuid told me to tell you he’s running a little late today – forgot about a last minute assignment and is in an absolute tizzy about it, I can tell you.”

David nods, uncomfortably. Silence falls between them, Ciarán supping at a mug of tea he’s sequestered behind the little reception desk. David stands, hands shoved into his pockets, not knowing what to do. He’s never actually been … _alone_ with Brother Ciarán before now. And David wasn’t good at making conversation when he could speak. His ISL is getting better, but …

“I’m glad he’s got you, you know,” Brother Ciarán says, conversationally.

David looks at him, this middle-aged monk unselfconsciously sitting with hands clasped across his stomach. Ciarán looks back at him steadily. There’s something steely in his gaze.

For all the terrible things that David’s seen and done, they have nothing on this man’s gaze.

“Mind you, I still tell him he should have more friends his own age. But a friend who isn’t a monk, that’s a step forward.” Ciarán pauses for a moment before continuing, seeming to choose his words delicately.

“Since he was eighteen, all that boy has spoken about is becoming one of us. Joining the brotherhood. I should be pleased, shouldn’t I? We’re a dying breed, monks, at least in this country.”

David shrugs a noncommittal answer. They are, of course. No one sees monks about these days – the priests are struggling too. But he doesn’t want to be rude.

“But that’s just it, you see. It’s because we’re dying out that I hesitate All of us – _all of us_ are at least twenty years older than him. Most of us are already old men. What is he supposed to do, when there’s only him?” Ciarán sighs and shakes his head. “So it’s good. Good that he has someone outside us to support him – even if you’re still too old.” He smiles on the last word.

“Still, though. Be careful with him. We are both old enough to know the fragility of youth – don’t take advantage of his kindness. He’s a good lad. He doesn’t deserve that.”

David doesn’t really get a chance to ask Ciarán what he means by that, because Diarmuid comes tumbling in in the next second, apologising and chattering and greeting them both. Ciarán laughs and tells Diarmuid he’s fine, just fine, and not to worry about it. David tries to look like he agrees, and within minutes, it’s just him and Diarmuid again, and the lingering doubt in himself that follows him wherever he goes.

That night, he stays at the hostel. He doesn’t get to sleep for a long, long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> David's wound is based on something I did to myself through an avocado instead of a lemon. It hurt a lot but I didn't need stitches!
> 
> This chapter took f o r e v e r, and I anticipate the next one will too given how busy work's going to be. Sorry :( As always, however, I thrive on your responses!


	4. Chapter 4

Their routines carry on, despite the lingering sense in the back of David’s head that he’s … taking advantage. Of Diarmuid’s kindness, his friendship. David spends the coldest nights (and God, they’re cold in more ways than one,) huddled up in Diarmuid’s spare bed. But he’s careful, so careful, to never stay more than a night or two every couple of weeks. Diarmuid’s face always falls a little at his insistence on leaving again, trudging back through the streets of Dublin to the hostel. Once, Diarmuid tries to argue that it isn’t safe for him to be out on the streets so late, but David only snorts.

_I’m scary. More than anything out there. I was homeless, Diarmuid_ , he signs.

_I still am_ , he doesn’t add.

Diarmuid looks a little embarrassed at the reminder. He fidgets where he sits on one of the stiff kitchen stools, hands wrapped around a warm mug of tea on the wooden table. He purses his lips thoughtfully, and David waits with fondness to hear the idea that’s taken root in his mind.

“Take a key,” Diarmuid says. “For the flat.”

Something strange unfurls in David’s chest. Something unnameable. Something … something like gratitude, and … not. His face is frozen.

“I just – I’d like to know you’ve got somewhere to go, in case … in case,” Diarmuid insists. He sounds nervous.

David swallows. His hands twitch – he wants to answer, but … _Don’t take advantage of his kindness_. Ciarán’s voice is clearer than a memory has the right to be. He still can’t answer.

“Hey, er - it’s all right,” Diarmuid says, pushing through David’s hesitation. “You don’t have to answer now, just – think about it? Please?”

David nods, and Diarmuid looks relieved. David feels a pang of guilt at the sight of Diamuid’s expression. His mouth, so small and worried-looking most of the time, has the ability to convey that which even his eyes can hide; currently, David can spy the tiniest upturn at the corner. A strange sensation, impossibly sweet, swoops through him at the sight.

That night they watch another movie at Diarmuid’s. Or, to be more specific, they watch a movie in Diarmuid’s bed. It feels intimate no matter how many times David reminds himself that most people Diarmuid’s age don’t have televisions, that they’re used to sharing tiny screens together in private spaces.

He won’t be able to remember the movie later, though he will remember vetoing _One Direction: This Is Us_ , which he’s still not sure if Diarmuid was joking about. What he will remember best is the way Diarmuid feels against his side, warm and– and– _present_. The body beside him is solid and reassuring and smells faintly of shampoo.

Diarmuid, David reflects, has a unique ability to induce the most peaceful sense of calm that David’s capable of feeling these days. David sighs suddenly, no conscious thought in the action, and Diarmuid makes a snuffling noise, and it’s then that David realises that Diarmuid has fallen asleep on his shoulder.

In the white luminescence of the laptop screen, David turns his head (slowly, carefully,) to look at Diarmuid. At that angle, all he can see is the top of Diarmuid’s head, his curls a mess upon it. But still. There’s something about looking so closely at another person’s scalp – too familiar for friends such as them. This is something only lovers do, or parents with their children. David turns away. But he doesn’t move. The film plays out, and Diarmuid breathes on David’s arm as he sleeps, and David makes a valiant but ultimately futile attempt to become stone.

Eventually, Diarmuid jumps suddenly, startled awake by a dream. To his embarrassment, David jumps too in his surprise. Diarmuid blinks the confusion out of his eyes, and David desperately tries to slow the rapid beating of his heart. After a minute, Diarmuid clears his throat and rubs the back of his neck.

“Oh gosh, I’m sorry,” he murmurs, voice soft with sleep. “I must’ve nodded off.”

David shakes his head, pushing himself to sit up a little straighter on the bed. Diarmuid’s bed. Where he shouldn’t feel like sleeping, shouldn’t feel like _staying_.

_It’s okay_ , he signs, before he can think about it. As if any of this is _okay_ , as if it’s _okay_ for him to have a friend half his age whose home he imposes on.

But –

(The smell of Diarmuid’s hair. Maybe it makes him stupid.)

_I will take the key_ , he signs.

Diarmuid stares at him in silence, mouth parted just slightly, processing the words.

“Thank you,” he says eventually, and his face slowly brightens into a soft glow, one of his most familiar smiles.

David almost forgets who he is in the light of that smile.

“Spare room’s free,” Diarmuid adds on. “It’s after ten, so …”

David nods, accepting the invitation. Diarmuid stretches his arms above his head with a pleased look on his face, like a cat that’s got the cream, and the rush of affection David feels at the sight makes him forget for a moment why he shouldn’t.

 

~

 

As with most generous offers, unexpected consequences are had via the key which David has been gifted with. Consequences for Diarmuid, that is.

David comes to the flat a couple of days later. The hostel is bleaker than usual at the moment – there’s at least one man who needs a hospital, stalking the halls and muttering to himself. Another man has been calling his ex-wife every hour of the day, and the night too, weeping on the phone and begging her to take him back. David pities them as much as he’s able, but his teeth have been set on edge and he’ll not be able to stand it if anything more happens. And he can’t afford to be kicked out for violence, even though it’s violence he cannot control.

So, to Diarmuid’s he goes. And he knocks – but there’s no answer. He hesitates, there on the doorstep.

The key in his pocket feels like a lead weight, hot against his thigh. His hand wanders into the pocket before he can stop himself, and he grips the key tight. Taking it out, he stares at the tiny thing in his hand, innocuous and plain and so, so terrifying.

He puts it in the lock, turns, and opens the door.

As soon as the door is open though, a distraction is revealed, saving him from dwelling on his guilt. There’s music playing within the flat, and he follows it along the hallway, as curious as he is bewildered.

 “ _I don’t care what people say when we’re together –_ ”

The music is coming from the living area. David blinks, and turns towards the doorway, where Diarmuid is currently dancing around the room, One Direction on at full volume. He sings to himself as he goes, moving piles of books around in a dizzying hurricane of activity.

“– _I just want it to be you and I forever_ –”

David watches him silently, amazed at the energy Diarmuid can muster for such a mundane task. Eventually, of course, Diarmuid turns in his direction, and jumps about five feet, pressing a hand to his heart.

“ _Christ_ , you scared me – sorry, Lord – but _Jesus_.”

David cracks a smile. He can’t help it, Diarmuid looks so startled, like a rabbit. And he even laughs, a quiet, wheezing thing, when Diarmuid shakes his head in protest, and smacks him with the nearest book.

“A man can’t even listen to One Direction in the privacy of his own home – damn it, David, stop laughing at me!”

But he keeps laughing, laughing and feeling lighter than he has for years. _Your face_ , he signs, and Diarmuid makes an even funnier expression of annoyance at that, and it sets him off all over again.

“Well, let’s see you dance better, hmm?”

_That_ pulls him up short. He hasn’t danced since – God knows.

_I don’t like it_ , he signs.

It’s … he struggles to think of an appropriate sign.

_Uncomfortable_ , he finishes.

Diarmuid hums, looking thoughtful. Dumping a pile of books in the armchair nearest, he puts his hands on his hips and sighs.

“Well, since you’re here – do you mind helping me organise my books?”

David shakes his head, happy to be able to do something ( _anything_ ) to repay Diarmuid’s kindnesses.

It soon becomes clear that Diarmuid is attempting to create some kind of new organisational system wholecloth, and David watches on, utterly bemused, as Diarmuid mutters to himself and dumps books all over the room. Half an hour later, the room’s messier than it started out as.

“Oh dear,” Diarmuid murmurs, chewing on his lip, when he finally stands up to observe the room proper.

David scratches at his beard and raises an eyebrow when Diarmuid turns to him, looking hopelessly lost.

_Mother said_ – he struggles to translate the saying into ISL – _bad before good_.

“True,” Diarmuid admits, scanning the room. “Worse before it gets better … worse before it gets better.”

He pauses again for a minute, before clapping his hands together.

“I know what to do. We need some lunch,” he announces, and David can’t stop himself from wheezing out a laugh.

Diarmuid sticks his tongue out at him.

They walk out together to grab a bite to eat, and Diarmuid comments on the first Christmas decorations of the season going up on the street. There are gold and red stars hanging from the lamp posts, and cheery-looking wreaths upon doorways. A feeling, not unlike melancholy, yet … warmer, somehow, suffuses David’s body as they walk. It’ll be his first Christmas since he became homeless.

He glances at Diarmuid, still chattering away. At least he won’t be alone.

Unless …

_Are you going to your mother for Christmas_?

It takes a moment for Diarmuid to translate, but the second he understands what David asked, his cheerful expression fades.

“Don’t know.”

_At the flat_?

“Maybe. Seems wrong to spend Christmas by yourself, though. And the flat’s a mess now if it wasn’t before.”

_The brothers_?

“They have a lot to do on Christmas ... Well, no actually, it’s one of the few days they have very little to do. But I don’t want to impose too much, I spent the whole day there last year and I think by the end Brother Ciarán just wanted to go to sleep. I’ll probably volunteer to man the desk in the morning, of course, and I’ll go to mass – I haven’t been enough lately, I feel terrible – but the rest of the day …”

They slow to a stop in front of a tiny café tucked away between two red brick buildings, quirky and hipster-ish.

“What are you doing for Christmas?”

David snorts.

“… Oh, th-that was a stupid question, just ignore me,” Diarmuid stutters out, flushing.

_I’m doing nothing_ , David replies properly, _you guessed_.

They enter the café and sit down at a table, a pregnant silence falling between them, David wondering internally if … if …

He doesn’t want to take advantage, he can’t, but … Diarmuid’s going to be alone on Christmas, just like him. There’d be benefit to David and he’s too selfish to pretend that the idea doesn’t fill him with warmth, so maybe he’ll go to hell for that, maybe Brother Ciarán will look at him the next time he drops by the home and just _know_. But there’d be something there for Diarmuid too. Something meagre and quite pitiful really, but all that he has to offer – company.

He raises his hands to ask, willing himself to be brave, but never gets the chance.

“Will you spend Christmas with me?”

Diarmuid’s voice is unexpected – especially as he’s not looking at David, but staring at the menu an expression of forced casualness on his face. He seems to remember that he needs to be looking at David for David to actually be able to answer, and turns his face hesitantly towards him.

_Yes_ , David signs. _Thank you_.

“I should be thanking you.”

But David knows who between them will really benefit from spending Christmas with a friend, and simply shakes his head.

 

~

 

The room does get organised eventually, Diarmuid settling on sorting his books by colour, for some ungodly reason. Then the DVDS and CDs, of which there are few – Diarmuid is a millennial, after all. (Technically David is too, but Diarmuid’s a _proper_ millennial. The sort whose first phone was an iPhone.) It takes a couple of days between them – might have been shorter, but David insisted on returning to the hostel.

He’s had another visit from someone in HSE. She’d been a bit kinder than the last one – a bit more patient with him, giving him the time to write, and she even attempts to say goodbye and hello in ISL.

“No promises,” she says, on her way out, “but I’ll see about being a bit pushy for disability payments. Not getting out of here without them. And you’ve got no one to advocate or translate currently, so …”

He nods noncommittedly, not expecting anything to change. She works hard, no doubt, but bureaucracy works harder.

A few days after her visit, though, quite to his surprise – he receives a letter. He’s dumbfounded to find that he’s actually qualified for a payment of some kind. Nothing to live on – nothing that will allow him to get out of the hostel – but … enough to perhaps pay for a new jacket, some warmer gloves ...

For the first time in months, he walks down to an ATM, swipes his ancient and battered card, and finds money in the bank. And it’s a strange, strange feeling. Having something that’s his. He didn’t exactly earn it, but still, it’s _his_ – it’s a sign that someone, somewhere, looked at him and said _I’ll help you_. And stamped a form, and did.

David feels tears pricking at his eyes, but blinks them away quickly, hoping no one will see. Then he decides to take out a hundred, just because he can, just to prove it’s real.

The cash comes out and the machine immediately begins to beep angrily at him for not immediately taking it, while he stares at it stupidly. Finally he grabs it and stuffs it in his wallet. His heart is pounding – there’s so much he could do with the money. He could … he could buy lunch, sit in a café without being chased off. He could buy something warm to wear, or even just a packet of new underwear.

Indecision freezes him where he stands, and it’s only when someone pointedly coughs at him that he realises he’s still frozen in front of the ATM. He moves out of the way quickly, looking around the street to make sure he doesn’t look suspicious, that no one’s coming to chase him off. That there are no immediate threats.

His eye catches on a brightly striped pole, red, white, and blue against the grey of the winter streets. And then he has an idea.

 

~

 

Despite the key, and despite knowing Diarmuid doesn’t mind him dropping by unannounced, David knocks. His hands feel sweaty. He’s much more nervous than when he let himself in with the key, and he hopes he won’t have to do it again and make his anxiety worse. If he’s not careful, this kind of anxiety will give way to real fear, and that in turn will give way to anger.

And he won’t be like that around Diarmuid again. Not ever again.

Luckily, Diarmuid appears to be home this evening. Footsteps approach the door, and David’s convincing himself, internally, that he won’t stay long – he’s just dropping by – when the door opens, and Diarmuid scrubs a hand over his face, looking exhausted and bleary-eyed.

“Sorry, just needed to grab my wallet, and I didn’t hear the knock at fi–” Diarmuid cuts himself off as his eyes focus on David.

The silence widens between them, Diarmuid’s mouth parted and his eyes roaming over David’s face. David can’t decipher the expression on Diarmuid’s face. The longer the silence goes on, the more nervous he feels.

“David, you–” Diarmuid stops to clear his throat, looking embarrassed. “That is you, isn’t it?”

David nods, swallowing.

“You look – good, I mean, I wasn’t expecting – you look _wonderful_.”

Warmth bubbles up inside him like hot cider in the middle of winter, and he rubs the back of his neck self-consciously.

_Got D-I-S-A-B-I-L-I-T-Y payment today. Not a lot. Just enough for this_ , he signs, gesturing to himself with an embarrassed tint.

“David, that’s fantastic! Ah, I’m so glad you got some good news.”

David shrugs. Diarmuid hasn’t stopped looking at him with that unreadable expression, though it’s diminished now behind his smile. It turns sheepish in the next moment, however.

“You’ve caught me at a bad time – I have this essay due at midnight and I just realised today that I answered the wrong essay question so I have to start over. I was just going to order in and … scramble something together, I suppose.”

_I’m sorry_ , David signs immediately. _I’ll go_.

“No!”

The suddenness of his answer seems to surprise even Diarmuid, whose eyes widen.

“No, I – I was just going to say, I don’t really have time for a movie or anything but … I think having someone around to bounce ideas off might not be a bad idea? I mean, you’d be doing me the favour. If you’d rather be anywhere else please tell me.” Diarmuid punctuates his little speech with a nervous laugh.

David shakes his head, and gives a tiny smile as confirmation. Diarmuid’s eyes catch on his mouth.

“I’ve never – you look so open, like this,” Diarmuid confesses. Before David can second-guess what that means, Diarmuid continues. “I like it.”

_Thank you_.

“Come inside.”

As Diarmuid lets him inside, David catches a glance of himself in the hallway mirror and does a double take. He’d seen himself at the barber already, of course, but – it’s going to take some getting used to; seeing his face again uncovered and undisguised makes him feel vulnerable. There’s the nose he’s had his whole life, there are his eyes, as brown as ever. But there too is his mouth, shut as always, there are his cheeks, there is his jawline, a little leaner than it used to be. The whole shape of his face has changed with a shave and a haircut, and it’s no wonder Diarmuid didn’t recognise him at first.

“I mean it,” adds Diarmuid, startling David out of his reverie, “You look good.”

There’s an unfamiliar sort of smile on Diarmuid’s face – a little shy, like when they first met, but something else lurks in it that David can’t pin down.

Dinner arrives shortly after David, and Diarmuid shares it with him against his protests. Then it’s straight back to Diarmuid’s essay, which David can’t truthfully make head or tail of at first. Still, after a bit of back-and-forthing, David starts to comprehend the essay question, which seems to help Diarmuid in turn. At several points, Diarmuid makes him read over a paragraph to check that it makes sense. David feels a warm glow every time Diarmuid reacts with relief to his comprehension.

Eventually, midnight draws near, but David still hasn’t left. He isn’t looking forward to going back onto the streets at this time of night – he’s not even sure they’ll let him in at the hostel, they can be tricky about curfew. But he won’t leave while Diarmuid is still curled up on the couch with his laptop, worriedly typing away and chewing on his lip. David forces his gaze back to the National Geographic he’d picked up from the coffee table.

About ten minutes before midnight, Diarmuid triumphantly clicks a button and, after watching the screen anxiously for a few seconds, grins and slams the laptop shut.

“Done! Done, and done! Oh, god, it’s _done_.”

David cracks a sleepy smile at him.

_C-O-N-G-R-A-T-S_ , he spells out, not knowing the sign.

“Thank you.” Diarmuid does a mock bow before flopping back down onto the couch and groaning. “I want to sleep for a week.” He glances over at David through red-rimmed eyes.

_I’ll go_.

Diarmuid stares at him for a moment. And then stares at him some more. And then, to David’s surprise, he stands up, walks over to the armchair, and sits on the arm. David tenses, remembering the last time Diarmuid had sat in that position, how his fingers had carefully manipulated David’s hands into position while he was still learning the ISL alphabet. It feels like a lifetime ago, but it was only three months ago. Three months ago, when he hadn’t a friend in the world and no voice to call out for help.

“Stop running away,” Diarmuid whispers.

David stares at him, guilt clawing its way up his throat.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to walk back to the hostel in the middle of the night in the freezing cold just because you don’t want to impose. I – I want you to impose. I’d much rather you be here with m– with someone you can trust. I just … I want you to be safe. I want you to _feel_ safe. I want to be a friend to you – I wish you would let me be.”

Oh, but Diarmuid is _better_ than a friend – Diarmuid is a saint; someone holy who blesses all they touch. David looks away from Diarmuid’s pleading face.

“I don’t know why you act as if me having you here is such an imposition – it’s not. And I know – I’m sure you value your own privacy and your own independence, I’m not –” Diarmuid pauses to groan, sounding frustrated. “If I’m – I’m sorry, I’m being pushy. I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

David swallows. All Diarmuid wants is to be kind to him – to be a friend. And David _won’t let him_. _David_ is the one being difficult, caught up in his pride and his fear, obsessed with Ciarán’s warning despite every part of him aching for something as simple as this friendship.

He turns to face Diarmuid.

_I’m sorry_ , he signs. _Not you. Me. My brain_.

Diarmuid shakes his head, pressing his mouth shut, his throat working. To David’s surprise, there are tears in Diarmuid’s eyes. Diarmuid must notice the alarm on his face.

“It’s the sleep deprivation,” he says, voice cracking. “I stayed up til four last night doing a different essay.” He chuckles weakly.

David feels his heart soften at the sight of Diarmuid, in tears from lack of sleep, still trying to act in David’s best interest.

_I’ll stay as long as you want_ , he signs, before placing a hand on Diarmuid’s arm, squeezing lightly in reassurance.

Diarmuid takes a deep breath and looks at him carefully.

“You may regret saying that,” he says, with the edge of a smile.

But David knows he won’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so 
> 
> 1) The chapter count has changed akgdhskdgjhsdk I'm sorry I can't write super short things.
> 
> 2) The ISL is upped in this chapter - I haven't simply written straight up English but more along the lines of how David is struggling to translate what he's thinking. 
> 
> 3) I did some cursory research on both What Monks Do On Christmas and exactly how David's situation would progress, but it's difficult to do online, from another country. So a lot of this is fudged from what facts I could gather. David would be eligible for a payment of some kind but probably not enough to live on, and he'd have to rely on someone very kind SOMEWHERE within the bureaucracy to take pity on him. Most men in hostels end up there a very long time because it's simply too difficult to extricate yourself from the situation. Luckily our Mute has Diarmuid to draw him out!
> 
> 4) Don't be too mad at Ciaran - he thinks that David's good for Diarmuid and was mostly just joking about the age gap. David's self-hatred didn't see it that way.
> 
> Next up: Christmas!
> 
> Please let me know if you enjoyed <3


	5. Chapter 5

Christmas comes sooner than David is expecting it to – despite having noted the Christmas decorations going up, despite the invitation from Diarmuid which still, _still_ makes his heart warm at the thought, he hasn’t really been paying attention to the passage of time. He spends more days at Diarmuid’s again, more even than before his chat with Brother Ciarán, and it all blurs together – the meals together at the kitchen table; the movies on Diarmuid’s laptop; the quiet nights in Diarmuid’s spare bed, occasionally hearing him mumble in his sleep in the next room. Truth be told David’s spending a lot more time at Diarmuid’s than at the hostel nowadays, but … He can’t bring himself to feel more than a little guilt, because it makes Diarmuid happy. For some reason, despite all that David is, his presence makes Diarmuid happy. But then, Diarmuid’s always been a people person. He would’ve done well with a flatmate.

On Christmas Eve, David realises he hasn’t got a gift for Diarmuid, and panics. He finds himself in the middle of an outdoor Christmas market, shivering, entirely overwhelmed and utterly despairing. He hasn’t much money, of course, but there’s more in his wallet than there has been for the past twelve months, so he owes it to Diarmuid to find _something_ nice.

He wanders around aimlessly for an hour or so, feeling more and more desperate. Eventually he stumbles into a tent that sells felt – felt animals, felt cat caves, felt slippers. But what catches his eye at the last second – just as he’s about to walk out – is a tiny felt lion, with a golden string attached to its head. A Christmas tree decoration.

He picks it up and studies it, feeling the soft fabric against his fingers. The lion is the same colour scheme as Simba. It’s overpriced, of course, but so’s most everything at a Christmas market, and David doesn’t mind spending a little extra on Diarmuid.

Before David can talk himself out of it, he buys it from the seller, (who looks confused by his total silence in response to her attempts to make small talk.) Shoving the little lion into his old jacket pocket, he leaves the market quickly, feeling the chill in his bones. He needs a better jacket than this old thing. But this one’s served him long enough, so he keeps his hands in his pockets in the way home and bears it as best he can. The sensation of felt against his fingertips keeps him warm enough, anyway.

The next day, he wakes up early and is unable to get back to sleep. He doesn’t need to be at Diarmuid’s for a few hours – Diarmuid is manning the home’s desk until eleven, and then there’s mass after that – so he gets up and decides to go for a wander in the meantime. The streets are quiet, no cars out and most businesses shut. As the hours pass, the city gets a little busier, and David gets a little warmer. The air is bitter cold, but the sun has come out and shines weakly. David stops by a Tesco when he realises he’s forgotten to wrap Diarmuid’s present, and picks up a card when he realises he shouldn’t waste money on a whole roll of wrapping paper for a single gift. At the last second, he picks up a tiny box for the lion, relieved it’ll look proper.

He sits on a gutter at the edge of the carpark, and stares at the card for a few minutes. He writes _Dear Diarmuid_ and _From David_ , before and after the card’s generic _Happy Christmas!_ But he’s stuck on what else to add. Eventually, with his hands starting to go numb, he writes, _Thank you for everything you have done for me. I’m not sure I’d be here without you. I’m sorry I still can’t speak after everything_. Then, before he can overthink things, he stuffs the card into its cheap envelope and puts it in his pocket with the lion.

He glances at the clocktower across the road, and decides to head over to Diarmuid’s when he sees that the hour hand has nearly reached eleven.

When he reaches the door, he hesitates again, still uncertain whether to knock or simply open the door with his key. Eventually he settles on knocking again, and the door opens within seconds to reveal a beaming Diarmuid.

“David! Merry Christmas!”

David thrusts present and card out in response, already embarrassed. Diarmuid’s face does something peculiar at the sight of it, his mouth opening and his eyes flickering between David’s face and hands.

“Oh – David, you didn’t have to –”

David shakes his head and pushes the present further into Diarmuid’s space. Finally, Diarmuid takes it, fingers closing around the box uncertainly, as if he’s unused to gifts.

“Thank you,” Diarmuid says, looking at it wondrously. “Come inside – should I open it now?”

David shrugs, following Diarmuid into the kitchen. Diarmuid glances back at him and smiles.

“Well, I’ll open it now as long as you don’t mind waiting for your gift until after lunch.”

_Mine_? David signs, alarmed.

“Yes of course yours, David. I wasn’t going to not get you a gift for Christmas,” Diarmuid scoffs, like it’s obvious.

And yet he’d looked so shocked when David turned up with one. David, who owes him everything. Somehow Diarmuid’s still got it into his head that he has to go even further, be even better a friend than anyone would ask him to be, let alone David.

David doesn’t have time to ponder any further, because Diarmuid has sat down at the kitchen table and is currently opening the card. David’s cheeks warm, remembering what he wrote, but Diarmuid scans the lines too quickly for David to snatch it back in a fit of embarrassment. His expression unreadable, Diarmuid opens the box, and pulls out the tiny lion.

_L-I-O-N K-I-N-G_ , David spells out, feeling utterly humiliated by the lack of anything on Diarmuid’s face. The feeling is not unfamiliar by now, but it stings all the same.

Only then, Diarmuid’s face crumples.

“Oh, David,” he bursts out, before throwing himself into David’s arms.

For a moment, David is frozen, completely unable to figure out what to do. Mechanically, his arms rise to enfold Diarmuid back. Only once they are around him does feeling flood back in – _warmth_ , and steadiness; the incomparable sensation of a willing body surrounding him and surrounded by him.

Every time Diarmuid touches him, this stillness, this flooding light – it overcomes him. Every time.

Without warning, Diarmuid thumps him on the back and steps back, clearing his throat.

“I’m so sorry, I just – I can’t remember the last time someone got me something so thoughtful. God. I don’t even know why I’m so – just ignore me.”

_It’s okay_ , David signs, sincerely. To be frank he doesn’t know why Diarmuid’s so moved either, but then, hadn’t Ciarán said that Diarmuid needed a friend?

“Well I’ve got to give you your present now, then, haven’t I?”

David makes a weak attempt at protest, shaking his head, signing _no_. But Diarmuid is having none of it, and disappears into his bedroom a moment later. Standing awkwardly in the hall, having half-followed him out, David thankfully doesn’t have to wait long until Diarmuid returns, something  bulky hidden behind his back.

“I’m sorry it’s not wrapped – but here.”

He thrusts the present forward. David takes it carefully, and it unravels in his hands into the shape of a leather jacket. He holds it up, feeling the smoothness of the leather under his hands. It’s real, making this jacket absurdly expensive. Lined with sheepskin too. He slips it on and can feel in an instant how warm it’ll keep him. He looks up at Diarmuid.

_Too much_ , he signs.

“Oh, is it too big? I’ve got the receipt somewhere around –”

David shakes his head.

_Too M-U-C-H_.

Diarmuid shakes his head. “No, no it’s not. Your old one’s falling to bits. Please, just – I’d feel better if you just took it.”

David hesitates, but it only takes a moment of looking into Diarmuid’s pleading eyes for him to accept.

_Thank you_.

His hands move slowly, to emphasise how much it means – Diarmuid’s kindness.

“Shall we eat?” Diarmid asks, abruptly. “I haven’t got much prepared, it’s not very Christmas-y at all, actually, but …”

Diarmuid continues to make excuses for his fare of pasta, salad, and store-bought pudding all the way through the meal. David waves it off every time. He hadn’t come here for the food so much as the company – and when he tells Diarmuid that, it finally seems to stop Diarmuid apologising.

After he’s stuffed with food (and Diarmuid too, judging by how green he looks,) they retire to the loungeroom and Diarmuid sets up his laptop to play some terrible children’s Christmas film, apparently having watched it as a child. David, not recognising it at all, twinges uncomfortably.

Truth be told, Diarmuid looks uncomfortable too – he keeps on shifting on the couch, and biting his nails distractedly. A voice at the back of David’s mind prods at him to ask Diarmuid what’s going on. But Diarmuid might not want to talk about it. Well, no. Diarmuid might want to tell _someone_ , but more likely someone who can at least answer back. Or give him decent advice, like Brother Ciarán.

About halfway through the movie (just as little Jimmy, or whoever, is beginning to doubt in Christmas,) Diarmuid turns to David.

“Hey,” he whispers, like they’re in a cinema.

David turns to look at him, at the uncertainty in his eyes.

“So, the thing is, I’ve been thinking about something for a while now. Involving you.”

David’s stomach swoops with fear, but he betrays no sign of it, giving Diarmuid a questioning look.

“And you obviously don’t have to say yes, it’s just that – I want you to be safe, and I want to be a friend to you and do what a – what a friend would do. And I know we’re in this … odd situation right now, I guess, with how we met and all, or – well, I don’t really know what constitutes a normal friendship, actually, my closest friends apart from you are all monks twice my age, which you – already knew that.”

David shakes his head and smiles, ignoring the fluttering of adrenaline taking flight in his veins as he listens to Diarmuid ramble his way towards something important.

“Right, yes, anyway. So, I gave you a spare key to the apartment. Which was part of this … gift? For Christmas? But it’s a selfish gift, maybe, because what I really wanted to ask is whether you’d consider … moving in?”

David stares at Diarmuid, feeling his face transform in disbelief. A _selfish_ gift? This is an impossible gift. This is nothing David deserves and everything he –

Wants. Wants desperately. And cannot have, should _never_ take advantage of. Yet unbidden, the memory of Diarmuid’s voice saying _stop running away_ runs its warm fingers over his ears. Despite himself, David allows himself to consider it.

A home. A place without men like him wandering the halls, muttering, shouting, always _talking_ , thumping the walls and trashing the bathrooms because it’s the only thing they can control. A place perhaps not his own – not if he’s not paying for it, and God knows he won’t be able to contribute much – but close enough to it. Closer still because Diarmuid is there, and David can’t remember having a friend like him before.

He swallows.

“Do you – you don’t have to answer now.” Beside him, Diarmuid is a tense ball of nerves on the couch.

David holds up a hand. _Wait_.

_Need to think_ , he continues.

Diarmuid leans back a little, silently easing off.

All right. So this is something he wants. That much he can accept, even if it’s still – difficult to admit that he _has_ wants. He certainly doesn’t believe he _deserves_ them, but Diarmuid does. Diarmuid believes he’s worthwhile, and a good friend. And Diarmuid has proven, time and time again, that for himself all he wants is his friendship returned. And yet to do that is nearly impossible.

The world has no use for David – he can’t talk, has no skills outside of combat, and he hasn’t money to make a fair contribution to the good ones like Diarmuid. All he has to offer are a tentative grasp of ISL, a measly pittance from the government to live on, and … company.

Company, which Diarmuid wants. Company, which is all that David can give him.

He looks at the fist that’s formed on his knee quite unconsciously.

Well, company, and maybe a bit of muscle around the flat. For moving … books, or something. He has a sudden image of himself as Diarmuid’s bodyguard, which morphs, entirely unbidden, into the picture of himself as Diarmuid’s sworn sword. Nothing to offer but his body indeed.

_Evaluating yourself like chattel is probably not very healthy,_ says a voice that sounds not unlike Diarmuid in the back of his mind. But David’s only barely a person, so it’s all right for him.

Company and a strong body, and maybe a bit of grocery money here and there.

_I haven’t money enough_ , he signs, watching Diarmuid carefully.

But of course Diarmuid snorts and shakes his head.

“Yes, I am aware. I don’t expect you to pay rent. Unless you want to, if you can get back on your feet.”

David hesitates. He’s not sure …

“I’m also not expecting you to attempt that any time soon unless it’s something you want,” Diarmuid adds gently. Reading David’s face like a book, as always. “Really.”

David lets his eyes roam over Diarmuid’s face, searching for the catch. There must be one, he’s sure of it.

Only, as he watches the hope sparking in Diarmuid’s eyes, he knows there isn’t. There never has been.

_Okay_ , he signs. His heart races.

A slow, uncertain smile spreads over Diarmuid’s face.

“Really?”

_Yes_ , David continues, trying to stop his hands from shaking. _Thank you is not enough_.

“Oh, shut up,” Diarmuid says, without malice.

David wheezes out a laugh and Diarmuid blinks at him, confused. “What?”

_First time I was told be quiet since a long time_ , he signs, having to concentrate on not laughing at the absurdity of it all.

Diarmuid turns a funny shade of pink but can’t help himself; he starts to laugh too. The streets outside may be dulled by cold and violence, but with the heat of Diarmuid’s body beside him, David allows the lightness of feeling to take him, however briefly, far from his loneliness.

 

~

 

He returns to the hostel that night out of necessity, to gather his meagre belongings and let someone know he’s found a place to stay. They won’t ask too many questions – the shelter’s overcrowded as is and someone needs a place more than him. One last night in the place, and then he’s … not free, but perhaps a little closer to it.

He heads down to take a shower and wash off the grime of the day almost immediately upon returning. The heat will be good for his numb fingers and toes, assuming the hot water’s still running or someone hasn’t completely decimated the bathrooms with their own – well, he hopes it’s functional.

Luck is on his side tonight, though, because there’s a functional shower stall, and hot water to boot. David closes his eyes under the steady stream of warmth, allowing the feeling to flow back into his extremities. Without meaning to, he sighs in relief. It’s hard to convince himself that he ought to save some hot water for whoever comes in next, so he … doesn’t. He lets himself stand on his aching feet in the warm water, feeling it run over his skin endlessly.

After a while it starts to feel like the warmth is inside him, like if he just stands there a little longer, he’ll become part of the water, and melt away down the drain. His mind drifts from thought to thought, and lands on Diarmuid. Always, always Diarmuid.

A feeling both familiar and shockingly alien rushes like a lightning strike through his body, and for a brief moment in its illumination, David thinks he understands something – something he’s pushed away for so long –

And then someone bangs on the door, knocking him out of his reverie. David jumps, heart startled into a rush that’ll be dangerous if he doesn’t calm himself down again. Quickly, he shuts off the water, jittery with nerves.

As he wraps the towel around himself, though, the realisation of why he felt so relaxed hits him when he looks down.

He blinks.

Well, Jesus.

It’s been months since _that_ happened.

He stares at his half-hard cock, feeling mildly embarrassed that he hadn’t realised earlier he was becoming aroused. Been long enough that he’s almost forgotten what it feels like. It does occur to him to wonder what triggered it, but whoever’s outside bangs on the door again, and he hastens to get dressed rather than risk a possible addict’s wrath. It must have just been the shower and the warmth after all.

 

~

 

David moves in the next day, no preamble, no fuss. He hasn’t much to move, of course. Diarmuid sheepishly admits that he’s not planning on letting either his mother or his landlord know about David – but that’s fine by David. It’s no more or less illegal than some of the places he’d stayed on the streets, and a hell of a lot warmer.

He thinks it should be a bigger deal than it is – that there should be some measurable change of pace. But nothing changes, not really. The anxiety eases a little, having a safe, private space of his own. Sometimes he cooks for Diarmuid, or accompanies him shopping for groceries, insisting on paying for his fair share. Might be he can’t speak, but he’s insistent nonetheless. And when they get home there’s movies, and talk – in David’s quickening hands, in the rise and fall of Diarmuid’s voice – and there’s warmth, warmth, warmth. Yet not so different from before as it might seem.

Of course, living together, accidents of intimacy are bound to happen. It’s only a couple of weeks before Diarmuid falls asleep on David’s shoulder again, having stayed up late the night before into the wee hours, finishing off a book for uni. The only difference this time is that David falls asleep too. And he does not sleep peacefully.

It’s not unusual for David to sleep fitfully – he has ever since he got back. He learned to sleep lightly overseas and has never been able to break the habit. It served him well on the streets and still does in the hostel, but it makes him prone to nightmares too.

He dreams that he’s in the desert. He is stranded with four others, people who don’t really exist. People who in his dream are his closest friends. They have no way home. They take jobs as delivery men, driving vast red tankers (far bigger than trucks really are, impossibly huge,) across the desert, hoping to earn enough to come home. Reality clashes with the vast landscape, David’s voice disappearing into the sands, because he can speak in his dreams – it’s just that no one can hear him. A vast noise descends around his ears, and he –

It’s disconcerting at first. Waking up in a room full of sound, with a warm presence at his side, creaking the bed beneath him as it shuffles about. His heart is racing, breathing sharp and quick. A voice makes itself known from the infernal _noise_ – rain. No, a thunderstorm. One that shakes the foundations, shouting and stomping its way through the night like a giant.

“It’s all right – you’re all right – it’s just the rain. You’re safe here. Wake up, come on. That’s it.”

Awareness is a sticky thing – his body is slow, but his mind switches on in an instant. It’s raining, he’s in Diarmuid’s flat. In Diarmuid’s bed – he’d fallen asleep there. His leg twitches and brushes up against a hard surface; the laptop at the end of the bed. The voice is Diarmuid, trying to soothe him. He’s had a nightmare.

He scrubs his hands over his face, rubbing his eyes, taking shuddering breaths. Without opening his eyes, he signs, _I’m sorry_.

“Don’t – you’ve got nothing to be sorry for. Just listen – listen to me. You’re safe. You’re here with me. Just relax. You’re all coiled up. Just relax.”

Perhaps it’s because David does not want to open his eyes and face his own shame, perhaps it’s because he does not wish to leave the bed ( _Diarmuid’s_ bed, don’t forget this is _Diarmuid’s_ space, _not yours_.) In any case, he doesn’t open his eyes. He forces his muscles to relax, one by one. Starting at the feet and making his way up his body. Losing himself to the sound of Diarmuid’s voice. His heart slows, and his breath evens out. He swallows once or twice, the taste of sleep sour in his mouth. Then he turns, having noticed his legs have gone numb, onto his side so that he’s facing Diarmuid. With sleep still warm and slow upon him, he doesn’t need to justify himself, doesn’t need to think about the arm which drapes itself over him. Instinctually, he seeks the comfort he needs, like an animal burrowing into the earth. He falls asleep once more, allowing himself to take what has been so freely given without censoring himself for it.

When David wakes in the morning, the thunderstorm has abated, leaving a drizzling damp in its place. He feels warm, though the air is more than chilly, and he realises that he’s under a blanket – maybe more than one, given how warm he is. Then the source of warmth moves, and the bottom drops out of his stomach when he realises – Diarmuid has his arm around him, spooning him from behind.

Immediately David tenses up, though he forces himself to relax when he realises that might wake Diarmuid up. Face burning, he forces himself to think. He _should_ try to slip quietly out of Diarmuid’s arms and away from the bed. There’s a chance that that will wake Diarmuid up and embarrass both of them, but – he can’t stay here. He doesn’t _want_ to stay here, curled up in Diarmuid’s arms. Waking up beside him as if they are –

_Oh_.

Oh.

This is where the ache lies.

Strangely, David’s heart doesn’t race. His breathing doesn’t quicken. None of the typical stress reactions he has grown used to manifest at the terrible realisation that he is in love with Diarmuid. That he has loved Diarmuid for a long time.

It’s not too strong a phrase to use. To use any other would be to lie to himself, and David … he wants to believe he’s better than that, at least. It’s really quite simple. He met a much younger man, who he can contribute nothing of worth to, and now he has fallen in love with him. He is in love with Diarmuid. He loves – present tense; as of _now_ , as of _here_ , as of _in this bed with his arms around me_ – Diarmuid.

He has loved Diarmuid since last night, when Diarmuid spoke with such gentleness and patience through his nightmare. He has loved Diarmuid since Christmas, since the warmest jacket he’s ever owned became his. He has loved Diarmuid since he cut his hair and shaved his beard, only caring what Diarmuid might think of him. He has loved Diarmuid since Diarmuid gave him the key to the flat. Since his first attack in front of Diarmuid. Since the day they first spoke of Diarmuid’s absent mother.

Truth be told, David has loved Diarmuid since the moment he met him, when Diarmuid saw that he could not speak and put his hands against David’s to teach him how to begin again.

The newfound knowledge of his heart does little to comfort David. Frankly, he doesn’t deserve comforting. He got himself into this mess and he’ll have to get himself out. He’ll leave the bed and go back to his room, and he’ll never sleep in here again. He’ll get a job and move out as soon as he can, and he’ll stop this absurd midlife crisis before it has the chance to hurt someone. Before it has the chance to hurt Diarmuid.

Behind him, Diarmuid shifts in his sleep, pulling him closer. And for just a moment, David allows himself that – the warmth of Diarmuid’s hand, the feeling that settles all over him like light scattered through a forest canopy. And then he gently moves Diarmuid’s arm, and leaves the bed, without looking back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Christ help me, this fic keeps getting longer and yet I have so much less time to write in. At least now David's gotten a clue!


	6. Chapter 6

It’s like waking up. As slow and confusing as it is, the process is necessary for him to know himself once more: to discover this newfound consciousness one step at a time; greet the world outside again. That is how it feels to know himself in love, yet have no way to know when precisely it began or how to prevent it from weaving itself into his very being.

His heart begs to be known, which is precisely why his discovery goes unacknowledged to anyone but himself and the night. Now that he finally understands it, understands why every interaction with Diarmuid leaves him feeling so – so inexpressibly _full_ , it overwhelms him. He feels off-kilter and utterly lost again, like when they first met. Their every interaction leaves his mind in a whirlwind and his heart equally as unsettled. Does Diarmuid know? Does he see? Can he feel David’s heart beating, skin warming, stomach dropping? _See me, see me_ , some unbearably vulnerable of him cries, while he prays – for the first time in years – that his feelings will remain where they are, in this sheltered, hidden place.

He finds himself flinching when Diarmuid is near. Diarmuid, because of who he is, notices. He hasn’t asked yet, but it’s only a matter of time – Diarmuid is kind, he’ll make it easy on David, make it so much harder to lie. And David _will_ lie, and hate himself both for the lie itself and his reason for needing it.

It’s been a few days. It feels like much, much longer.

Nothing about their routine changes of course. The world continues turning as it always has, as if its very axis did not shift mere days ago. David wonders at it, the remarkable fact of his own insignificance. There is nothing to make one feel small quite like discovering that one’s deepest pangs of desire, regret, grief, happiness – they mean nothing at all to the universe.

And this desire, this longing – it _is_ unfamiliar to him. David catches Diarmuid humming some ridiculous top forty tune under his breath, elbow deep in dishes at the sink, and feels a wave of affection so strong that for a brief moment, he wonders if it’s some kind of new attack. The realisation that this simple feeling has been with him for some time without his notice is equally as disquieting as the wave which prompted it.

Diarmuid turns to him and smiles absent-mindedly, turning back to the dishes, and David blinks, moving away quickly, having forgotten entirely what it was he came in the kitchen to do.

And David has seen many things, he’s had – _experiences_ , with people. Before the army and after. Back when he could muster up some conversation to grease the wheels of social interaction, though he’s always been a man of few words. He remembers flirtations, kisses, sex. The heady rush of discovering another person’s body. But all those times he had already been so well acquainted with his own body that there was little need to consider all the questions and sensations that plague him _now_.

It’s become dangerous to be alone – no, that much has always been true – it’s become dangerous to have _privacy_ , for that very reason. Now that his libido has reawakened, David finds his body is insistent, demanding touch. It’s not like he’s a young lad again by any means, but considering how little he’s thought about his body in anything other than self-loathing terms for over a year, let alone how little he’s thought about anyone else’s, it practically knocks him off his feet. Every night in bed his thoughts wander, and soon so do his hands.

He traces his hand across a scar on his chest, a brutal gnarl of skin and sinew that cuts across his collar bone and tapers off at his shoulder. He imagines Diarmuid running his hand along it. His mouth. Quickly, David squeezes his eyes shut and digs his fingernails into the skin, sparking pain. A reminder that this is not a feeling he can indulge.

But the drive returning to his body is hard to ignore. Impossible, really – and so he reasons that it doesn’t hurt to indulge it if he thinks of something else. _Someone_ else. After all, isn’t it meant to be a good thing? All the pamphlets he’s had thrown at him by doctors imply that the loss of libido is a symptom of sickness. Its return should be a sign that he’s getting better. And however he might feel about Diarmuid, he knows that Diarmuid wants him to get better. So he thinks of anything _but_ Diarmuid, focuses in on himself and skin against skin – the sensations he is capable of causing _himself_ , and no more.

It doesn’t happen straight away. The first time he tries it, the pleasure builds and builds – and never resolves. There is no satisfaction, only two tears of frustration, forced from his eyes when he screws them shut in the throws of his self-hatred. He doesn’t try again for a few days, and then, only half-heartedly.

No, it happens after a dream. He pretends he can’t remember it as he ruts into the sheets, letting the impressions wash over him. An arched back, above him. Warm thighs around him. A low sound, torn from the bare throat of the man above him, pushing onto him again and again. The face – that wasn’t in his dream, but what is imagined cannot be undone – and then, _he_ is undone.

He lies with his face pressed into the pillow, breathless.

It doesn’t take long for the disgust to follow.

 

~

 

In God’s typical, cyclical form of judgement, Diarmuid confronts David the next day – in his way, at least, with careful concern and a guilt-inspiring lack of judgement.

Diarmuid has classes on a Thursday, but they don’t start until three, so the two of them have gotten into the habit of a late breakfast together in the kitchen. As Diarmuid is usually frantically making his way through at least one forgotten reading, David doesn’t expect conversation this morning – and isn’t sure he can handle it after last night. He can hardly look at Diarmuid as he sits down at the tiny kitchen table, let alone remember to use his hands.

Well, use his hands for _talking_ , anyway.

“Erm, so … David, I was wondering if – are you all right?”

David sips his tea and tries not to panic. Setting the cup down deliberately and slowly, he raises his hands.

_Fine_.

“Okay,” Diarmuid says, drawing out the word in a way which heavily implies his doubt. “Just because – I thought you’d been more jumpy than usual in the past few days? Not that – you’re not _very_ jumpy, of course. I was just – worried. If … if you don’t want to be here …”

David has to hold in a hysterical snort of laughter. He _does_ want to be here, of _course_ he does – far too much. If he’d convinced himself before he deserved a chance at a better life, he knows he’s fucked it up beyond repair now. His feelings are either a test he’s failing, or else a punishment for being greedy in the first place.

But at least he can reassure Diarmuid without lying.

_I want to be here_ , he signs. His hands do not tremble. His face is as blank as a sheet of paper, entirely disguising the lightning storm of emotion he’s keeping inside.

“Are you sure?” Diarmuid bites his lip. “I never meant to pressure you, if it’s not something you want. We can figure something else out that’s not the shelter, if that’s all that’s bothering you.”

David shakes his head, forcing himself to smile reassuringly.

_I’m fine. I want to be here. With you_ , he adds on, ignoring the way his heart leaps into his throat.

A faint splotch of pink rises onto Diarmuid’s cheeks.

“Okay,” he says. “I believe you. But – if there are any issues, or … Let me know? Please?”

David swallows.

_Always_ , he lies, with the same hands he used to– to–

“Good,” Diarmuid smiles. “Anyway, I’d better be off.”

David nods noncommittedly, and within a minute, Diarmuid is out of the flat.

The day is awful. Alone in the flat, David has nothing to think about except what he did last night – and yes, perhaps he was only partially conscious, but he was conscious _enough_. Enough to stop himself from indulging this blatantly obvious act of disrespect, enough to realise he’d been kidding himself when he pretended his libido making itself known again had nothing to do with Diarmuid and David’s feelings for him.

He tries reading a random book from one of the haphazard piles around Diarmuid’s living room, but the words blur before his eyes into a haze of academic jargon. He turns the cover over and blinks at the title. _Ugliness: A Cultural History_. God, no wonder he feels so awful.

He forces himself off the couch and wanders around until he finds himself in the bathroom, deciding that he may as well shower, considering there’s no one to interrupt him anymore and … And he doesn’t feel clean, in body _or_ mind, right now.

So. Shower it is then, until he feels like himself again.

(As if that’s possible. As if he’d even want to go back to how he was, lost inside his memories, with no hope of a future, no traitorous whisper in his heart saying Diarmuid’s name.)

He closes his eyes, and strips off.

The shower here is always warm, even though the flat’s nothing special. It’s exactly as middle-of-the-ground as one would expect for a wealthy parent to pay for. No bath to speak of but warm, warm water, and a decent amount of pressure. Still, David doesn’t take too long, aware of his nakedness and the fact that his body is still determined to make up for lost time.

He steps out and wraps a towel around himself, intending to go straight to his room and change, not having brought fresh clothes with him. But despite how good he’s gotten at avoiding his own appearance, his eye still catches on the shape of himself in the mirror. And without meaning to, he steps closer.

His eyes roam over his skin, the myriad of wounds he’s taken, twisted into cries of pain, marking his skin forever. His shape has changed, since the army. Then, he’d been in what they called “peak physical fitness.” Ready to endure, ready to run, ready to fight. And to kill. They made his body for that with the most loving care of all. But now he’s softer. Still as tall as ever, still broad, but his musculature is diminished – probably not from idleness. More likely a consequence of the uncertainty of hunger on the streets. Yet there’s a layer of fat where there wasn’t before as well – Diarmuid’s work. What David’s mother might have called a healthy bit of extra warmth, God rest her soul.

His face is still so exposed without his beard and his long hair, but at least there’s stubble – he’s always been hairy. He’s been shaving, but not frequently enough to combat that. And with his hair slicked back away from his face, revealing the worry lines around his eyes and forehead, he feels old. Ancient.

_What am I doing here_?

He doesn’t have an answer for himself. And suddenly the sight of his ugly, brutish body is something he cannot stand anymore. He turns away, heart thumping with phantom anxiety, fists clenching with a sudden rage. The feeling races through him, an overwhelming thing of muck and filthy smoke – oh, God, he’s going to have an attack.

_Not in here_. Not in the bathroom, where he could break something – or himself.

He forces his feet to the door, forces his hands not to crush the doorknob, forces his arms not to slam it behind him.

And then he feels sick, because Diarmuid’s standing in the hallway.

“David!” His voice cracks in that beautiful way it does. “Sorry – I didn’t –”

His eyes are roaming across David’s body. Evidently, he doesn’t know where to look. There’s something there – in that expression – and in David’s panic, he sees it for what it must be: revulsion. Embarrassment.

His throat seizes, and he knows he must look a sight, so he brushes past, knuckles white on the towel, and walks into his room, closing the door behind him as gently as if he feels nothing at all.

And when he is alone at last, with throat silent and stomach roiling, he beats his sides until they bruise. He doesn’t touch anything in the room but himself, in the only way he deserves.

 

~

 

Later, he comes back to himself. He covers his skin with warm clothes so Diarmuid won’t worry, and stretches carefully, ensuring he won’t flinch if he has to sit or stand strangely. Bruises are beginning to form on his ribs, and his forearms, where he gripped himself too tightly. Some grim part of him notes the fact that he still has the strength to do it, but he shakes off the thought, too exhausted to deal with more pain, more thoughts of who he has hurt. He exits the room for tea, and there isn’t a single thing left to show what he’s done to himself.

Oddly enough, Diarmuid isn’t already in the kitchen, ready to discuss what to eat. He insists on giving David a say, though he’d be well within his rights to choose every time. David pauses, but decides to just sit at the table and wait for Diarmuid. He’s only settled in with a book for about fifteen minutes before Diarmuid walks into the room.

For some reason, Diarmuid’s eyes widen when he sees David sitting there, and he turns absolutely tomato red.

“David! Hey! I didn’t know you were – I mean, you live here, I know that, I just didn’t – erm, what do you want to do for dinner?”

He hasn’t rambled like that since they first met. For a moment David thinks that Diarmuid must know what he did, alone in his room – _either_ of the two times – but no, no. If Diarmuid even suspected he’d hurt himself, David would hear no end of reassurance and uncomplicated concern.

_Whatever_ , he signs, cautiously.

“You always say that,” Diarmuid says, still looking a little flustered. “But I want you to choose tonight. Really.”

… _I-N-D-I-A-N_?

“Great! Delicious! I’ll go – order. On my phone. It’s in the other room.”

And with that, Diarmuid shuffles out, still bright red and completely baffling.

Whatever’s going on with him is probably a good distraction from examining David too closely, but still … David feels a prickle of concern. Diarmuid is rarely so flustered; his being always entirely and unapologetically himself is part of what David loves about him.

And with _that_ thought, David stands up abruptly to follow Diarmuid into the living room.

He finds Diarmuid sitting curled up in an armchair, chewing on his thumbnail while scrolling through the ordering app on his phone. There’s a little worried frown on his forehead, though his cheeks are less pink that before. With his pale skin it’s particularly noticeable.

David gently presses his arm, and Diarmuid jumps, as if he’d been completely absorbed in his phone. He looks up at David with an expression – it almost looks like _guilt_.

_Are you okay_?

Diarmuid stares at him with wide eyes before choking out an answer.

“Yes – yes, of course. I’m just _grand_. I …”

He sighs and puts a hand to his forehead, dragging it down his face.

David kneels down next to the armchair, listening intently. Diarmuid bites his lip before speaking again, and the words are hesitant.

“Have you even been very sure you wanted something, and then realised … Maybe you want something else, but you – you can’t have both?”

David … doesn’t know what to say to that. He only wants one thing, and that, he’s certain he cannot have.

_Sort of_.

Diarmuid nods, more to himself than David.

“Yes, well … Never mind. It doesn’t matter. Come on, let’s order you some terrible bland Indian food.”

_It’s good_ , David argues.

“No, it is _not_ , it is a sin against humanity, and India,” Diarmuid laughs, and there’s the smile – there’s the spirit once more.

David smiles in return, and tries to trust that Diarmuid will tell someone what’s going on. It doesn’t need to be him. It … really, it shouldn’t be him.

That’d be more than he deserves.

 

~

 

A few days after David’s attack – during which time, Diarmuid has not let slip any hint of whatever it was that upset him – Diarmuid asks what he’s doing next Tuesday.

For a moment, David feels like it’s all those months ago once more – back when they first began the lessons. He stares at Diarmuid for a moment while he processes the sentence.

_Why_?

Diarmuid shifts in his armchair, carefully tilting the screen of his laptop away from David.

“Well,” he begins carefully, “There’s this thing on.”

_Thing_ , David repeats, with a flat look.

Diarmuid screws up his face in an infuriatingly endearing way – a reminder that even now, even in simple domesticity and quiet repose, David’s secret still taints the air between them. Diarmuid makes a high-pitched, non-committal noise.

“It’s … term break’s coming up soonish. And mum’s felt particularly guilty about the fact that she didn’t get me a Christmas present, so I’ve some unexpected income. And there’s … a trip. That I wouldn’t mind doing. With you, maybe? It’s – I feel like it’s the kind of thing that’d be nicer with a friend?”

_What is it_? David signs, exasperated.

“I was thinking about spending a weekend in Kerry. There’s this dark sky reserve there – I went when I was a kid, I always thought about going back.”

_Dark S-K-Y_?

“So you can see the stars. There’s no light pollution like there is in a city. We went for a school camp when I was a kid, and we stayed out under the stars. I’d never seen anything like it … I really did always mean to go back because it was so … It was beautiful.”

_Why with me_?

It’s a pressing question – David doesn’t see what he’d add to an experience like that.

“I don’t know, I just … It’s the kind of thing you want to share, you know?”

Oh, Diarmuid.

_Money_ , David cautions.

“My _mother’s_ money,” Diarmuid insists, with a not-quite-sad smile playing about his mouth at the reminder of the woman. “It’s the one reason I’d even consider it. And I want you with me. Please?”

God help him, of course he can’t say no.

And as soon as he acquiesces, Diarmuid bursts into a chatter of excitement, rambling on about how they’ll get there (a return train trip,) what date they should go (some time in early April for slightly warmer weather,) and where they should stay (AirBNB is apparently the way to go for people Diarmuid’s age, which David accepts with befuddled amusement, given that he’s never owned a smartphone.)

“There’s a few nice places, to be honest. They’re more expensive near the city. But these are out in the country, and the ones on the coast aren’t too bad … ooh, look at this one. It’s a renovated church!”

Diarmuid crawls over from his spot on the floor, and David leans in over him to see the phone, displaying pictures of the beautiful country spot. It is indeed a renovated church, which is probably a little sad – so few people worshipping nowadays. Well, not that David does. Whoever bought it has done wonders with it, decorating it in a pseudo-Medieval style, tapestries on the walls and chandeliers everywhere. It looks absurdly expensive, but really doesn’t cost more than the average hotel room according to the price on the screen. David raises his eyebrows, impressed.

_It’s nice_ , he admits. A thought occurs to him. _You aren’t bothered? A church_?

“No?” Diarmuid looks puzzled, frowning up at him from where he’s kneeling beside the couch.

_Not D-I-S-R-E-S-P-E-C-T-F-U-L? For a monk_?

“Oh.” Diarmuid’s voice does something funny in the single syllable. There’s a strange sort of silence before he keeps speaking, during which he looks at his phone, vacantly. “No. I mean it would be wasteful to let a beautiful building fall to ruin just because people aren’t going anymore. I don’t know. Maybe it’s even … appropriate?”

David watches as Diarmuid’s voice rises higher and higher with uncertainty, before deciding that perhaps asking a future monk about whether it’s sin to stay in a church is too philosophical for this time of day. Or … any time of day. He raises a single eyebrow, and Diarmuid takes the hint, moving back to the armchair and his laptop with mutters of bookings and taxis.

David feels like perhaps he ought to be arguing more strongly against his participation in this particular venture of Diarmuid’s. Another person means more money, and Diarmuid already argues with him about the groceries and the heating and water – David is under no delusions that Diarmuid will allow him to contribute anything but company to this trip.

But he’s tired of retreat. Now, with a secret blooming in his heart, every day is retreat. Every day is stopping himself from indulging the thousand urges that would ruin him and Diarmuid both – from the simple wish to put his hand against Diarmuid’s back, to the most shameful desire to put his knees to use in service to him.

God help him, but he wants an escape. Even if he won’t really be leaving the thing that’s killing him behind.

 

~

 

The trip comes upon them sooner than David expects – before he knows it, Diarmuid is asking him to pack a bag, making his excuses to the brothers, and excitedly telling everyone in earshot (everyone in this instance being David,) about how much he’s wanted to go back to Kells. David ignores the mounting dread in his stomach at the thought of a new environment, somewhere far from the familiar streets of Dublin. As long as Diarmuid’s happy – that’s all that matters. Besides, it’s only three days. David can leave Dublin for three days.

Soon enough the day comes for them to leave. It is with a great deal of apprehension that David watches as Diarmuid locks the door behind them and calls a taxi, though he musters a wan smile when Diarmuid grins at him and announces the taxi’ll be there in a few minutes.

The taxi stinks of cigarette smoke, and the bloke behind the wheel rambles on endlessly about all the troubles he’s seen while George Harrison’s _Got My Mind Set on You_ plays on the tinny radio. David thinks it’ll be stuck in his head for days, but it’s oddly calming, the repetition.

Then it’s to the station, a few minutes shivering in the cold of the platform before their train arrives. It isn’t much warmer on the train itself, but it’s warm enough. They stow their luggage above their seats and sit pressed close together. David gives Diarmuid the window seat, but Diarmuid hardly glances out of it. He pulls out his phone and a pair of earphones instead, offering one to David. David accepts it, and together they listen to vaguely familiar classical music – which confuses David at first, considering what he knows of Diarmuid’s taste in music. But eventually, he understands why Diarmuid chose it when Diarmuid falls asleep on his shoulder. He looks down and has to resist the urge to sigh. Diarmuid treats him like a cat treats a space heater. Only a space heater can’t want.

It gives him the strangest sense of déjà vu, to have Diarmuid lying against his shoulder like this, and he recalls his promise of several weeks ago – that he’d get out of Diarmuid’s flat, and his life. That he wouldn’t burden Diarmuid with his feelings. Yet here he still is, with Diarmuid against his shoulder, pressed up against his side, on a damn _holiday_ with just the two of him. All things considered, he’s doing a shit job of keeping himself away from Diarmuid.

Then again …

David thinks of the trip ahead. Three days. Three days to take in the stars, to rest, to explore a new environment far away from Dublin and safe from all his memories.

And, perhaps, three days to say goodbye.

They arrive within a few hours, and take a taxi to the AirBnB. It rises up from behind a green rise practically on the beach itself. Although David had known it was a refurbished church, he’s still faintly alarmed to discover just how like a church it still looks on the outside. Judging by Diarmuid’s wide eyes and soft gasp, he feels the same way.

“It’s beautiful,” Diarmuid murmurs, after they’ve paid the taxi driver.

And it is, at that. The stone is whitewashed, with a belltower attached, and wide windows to let in the light. Inside, it’s even more lovely – whoever refurbished the place has leant right into the medieval aesthetic, with tapestries of gardens, coats of arms, and unicorns decorating the walls. They’ve built in an upstairs level with two tiny bedrooms and a shared bathroom, while downstairs is the kitchen, living room, and dining room. The attached belltower has been converted, of all things, into a laundry.

All of this and more Diarmuid unnecessarily describes to David as they wander through the building. He comments on the polished, dark floorboards, the rich turquoise colour the bathroom is painted in, the red accents highlighting the roof beams. Late afternoon sunlight floods the rooms, and in the distance, the sea sings its ancient song. It’s … peaceful, here. Almost familiar.

They each take their time washing the distinctly unfortunate combination of taxi-driver-with-a-smoking-habit- and cramped-train-full-of-people-smell off them in the bathroom, though David is careful not to allow Diarmuid to see him in a towel again. His toes curl with embarrassment at the memory.

They reconvene in the kitchen, where they both agree to wait until tomorrow night to go out and see the stars. They’re both too exhausted from the journey to go out again, and so they order in, though they’ve really only got about three choices of menu left behind by the owner, and nothing shows up on Diarmuid’s apps. The woman on the phone tells them it’ll be quite the wait, as far out as they are.

“I think I know why this place was so cheap, now,” Diarmuid jokes.

But the food comes eventually, and they eat it in companionable silence, Diarmuid too exhausted to speak, and David’s hands busy. They retire early to bed, and David lies in the unfamiliar room, listening to the wind off the ocean circling the house like a cat about its owner’s legs.

 

~

 

The next day finds them debating whether or not to go explore the beach outside in the freezing temperatures which have descended overnight.

“It’s fine, David, we’ll just rug up,” Diarmuid argues, looking out one of the wide windows which faces the choppy ocean.

_Cold. Water is_ – David struggles to think of a sign for utterly wild – _messy_.

“Well I’m not afraid of a little cold. And I know _you’re_ not, considering the number of times you walked back to the shelter from my flat of an evening.”

That was more a guilt-induced action than anything, but David doesn’t tell Diarmuid that.

_You stay warm_ , he signs instead, making his movements deliberate and hard.

“I will! Just worry about yourself. You know you don’t have to come.”

The thought hadn’t even occurred to David, but he just makes a grumbling noise and walks off to find his gloves.

As it turns out, though, the beach is rather beautiful, even in the cold. The white sand is soft under their shoes, and it looks as though barely anyone comes here, so they have the place to themselves. After a few miles of naught but seabirds and sand, they take a break near a patch of reeds, valiantly struggling against the polar winds. Catching his breath, Diarmuid makes a small, strange noise.

“There’s something about this place, isn’t there?”

David nods. He hadn’t realised Diarmuid felt it too.

“It’s beautiful.”

After that he says nothing, and for the second time in as many days, they are able to sit in comfortable silence, listening to the waves. Sensation seems strengthened here. David’s spent so long craving and fearing touch ( _Diarmuid’s_ touch), he’s neglected the wonder of hushed places, the crispness of the air where humanity hasn’t yet performed destruction. The sounds and smells of peace.

He wishes he didn’t have to end this. He wishes he was content with what God has given him, but even now – even now, it’s not enough. Diarmuid’s hand rests next to his own and he wants to take it, run his thumb along the knuckles, raise it to his mouth and kiss it.

They move off not long after.

Late in the afternoon, Diarmuid mentions that they should probably find a nice spot to watch the sky from. They can walk out somewhere and walk back; Kells is as beautiful as it is somewhat small, and all of it is a designated dark sky site. So it is they make their way out into the fields that evening, the twilight settling in around them. David is carrying a picnic blanket, while Diarmuid carries his phone and a torch in his pockets, since they won’t be needing much else. At some point, just as it’s really beginning to get dark, Diarmuid stops.

“Here,” he says. “Here will do.”

David sets down the blanket and unfurls it, and they both lay down to stare up at the sky. For once David isn’t thinking about Diarmuid’s warmth at his side. The sky is too wide, a yawning void of distant gleaming things growing brighter even as the space between them darkens. Around them, the air picks up a chill, but David barely notices as the universe continues to reveal itself. A vast gash, like a celestial tear, appears to split the sky in two – the Milky Way. It’s as if the sky itself nearly fell apart, only to be healed, scarring over the wound. It’s strange to see the heavens that look so empty in Dublin be filled with light in this place.

“You know,” Diarmuid says faintly, after some time spent in silence, “I’ve just realised I have no bloody idea whatsoever what any of these stars are called.”

David turns his head and quirks an eyebrow.

“I mean I spent so long wanting to come back here – but I don’t – I can’t remember a thing about any of it, any of the stars, any of the planets, nothing. That’s …”

_Sad_ , David thinks.

“… _Hilarious_.”

And with that, Diarmuid laughs.

“Oh, my teacher would be so disappointed with me. He always said to us, _now there’s the glory of God, lads. It’s all up there._ Catholic school, you know.”

David doesn’t, actually. He taps Diarmuid’s arm to get him to look as he signs.

_I’m J-E-W-I-S-H. Mother’s side_.

Diarmuid blinks.

“Oh, really? I had no idea.”

_Didn’t tell you. It’s all right_.

“I feel like – David, there’s a whole side to you I don’t know about,” Diarmuid murmurs.

And David really shouldn’t. He’s supposed to be breaking this whole thing off, but … Diarmuid sounds so sad. So maybe a little more information won’t hurt.

_Dad was C-A-T-H-O-L-I-C. Irish_.

There’s a pause.

“Aren’t – David, are you not Irish?”

Now it’s David’s turn to blink.

He hadn’t realised – without an accent –

_A-M-E-R-I-C-A-N. Mother again_.

“Oh my _god_ ,” Diarmuid says loudly. “This whole time I thought – oh my _god_.”

_Irish C-I-T-I-Z-E-N_ , David insists. _Four years old. Moved. Then back here. After the army_.

There’s a much longer pause now, as Diarmuid swallows. His eyes glint in the darkness as he blinks rapidly.

“I wish …” He hesitates. “You don’t have to keep things from me. I mean, you don’t have to tell me things either, it’s just - you’re … this whole _person_ I don’t even know.”

_I don’t feel like a person_.

The admission feels like a secret between them, as if it isn’t obvious to everyone, as if he doesn’t _make_ it obvious through his stoppered mouth.

Diarmuid’s eyes reflect the stars, brighter than the sky above them. He rolls all the way onto his side, tucking his arm beneath his head.

“I like you because you’re a person,” he whispers. “I wouldn’t like you at all if you were anything else. I like … I like that you have a terrible and frankly incomprehensible palate. I like that you hate One Direction. I like that annoyed look you give loud people in public. And I like the rest of you too. I like your patience. The way you listen – and it’s not because you can’t talk, I can tell when you tune out, and it isn’t often, it’s almost never with me. I like how you can convey so much with so little at your disposal. I like you. I do.”

David doesn’t dare breathe.

Doesn’t let himself think.

There is only the sky in Diarmuid’s eyes. The stars refracting and reflecting what lives inside him. A light so brilliant and clear it can purify all it touches.

Or –

Almost all.

David wishes he could say something – anything, really, anything at all to give back just a little of what Diarmuid has just given him. But he promised himself. Three days to say goodbye.

He turns his head away, facing the stars once more, and swallows. The lump in his throat goes no further, and after a moment, Diarmuid turns his head to face the sky again too.

They rest in the silence of this place, listening only to the quiet night sounds of tiny animals, and the distant rush of the shore. The chilly air feels welcome against David’s skin, but after an hour, they are forced to leave if they want to warm up enough to sleep tonight. Diarmuid talks softly, as if he doesn’t want to disturb the peacefulness, making small talk about nothing in particular. He seems – subdued. Perhaps this place is not all that he’d hoped it’d be, spectacular though it is. Or perhaps knowing that David has kept things from him has upset him. But it’s for the best, David keeps telling himself. They have one more day together. A day for David to spend making memories to hold onto. A day for David to tell Diarmuid that he’s leaving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to clear up: Diarmuid and David are definitely speaking a pidgin version of ISL, given David's reluctance to get, y'know, proper lessons. Kerry is indeed a dark sky site and Kells in particular is gorgeous ... according to Google. Also couldn't resist using Kells given the Book of Kells and my love for the film _The Secret of Kells._ And finally, I decided to make David American. But born in Ireland. Also Jewish. Also familiar with Catholicism. A bit of everything basically, and I figured perhaps part of the reason for his muteness might be related to his stand-out accent despite being born in Ireland. I'm Catholic but not Jewish, so hmu if there are any issues there. The interfaith marriage of his parents is loosely based on a couple from within my own family, although in that case the genders are swapped and the man eventually decided to convert.
> 
> Please comment if you enjoyed this chapter!!! I'm sorry it took so long, it was a bit of a monster.


	7. Chapter 7

From the moment he wakes up, David feels dread in the pit of his stomach.

Today he is going to tell Diarmuid that he’s leaving. He’ll hurt Diarmuid – end their friendship – and then he’ll go to a shelter, and forget the chance he was given. He will. He _will_. He repeats it over and over, compulsively. Words he’ll never say aloud.

At breakfast, Diarmuid is uncharacteristically subdued. He picks at his leftovers from the night before, chin on his hand. There’s something about the quiet melancholy infusing his face that makes him beautiful. _More beautiful_. Diarmuid’s always had a thoughtful face. Something delicate around his mouth, something sharp along his jaw. David watches him, silently trying to frame the words to explain that he’s leaving, but – Diarmuid barely looks up. David may be able to do a lot more with ISL than he used to, but starting conversations is still beyond him. The tension grows and grows, until he feels his hands starting to shake, and he knows he can’t hold it in any longer unless he wants to have an attack.

He puts his hand on Diarmuid’s arm, and Diarmuid jumps so violently that David thinks at first he’s been hit by something.

_Sorry_ , David signs, immediately, though his heart is racing. _Sorry_.

“It’s fine!” Diarmuid hastily blurts out, but his eyes are anywhere but David’s face. “Just – off with the fairies.”

_I want to talk_ , David signs, wishing that he was fluent enough to soften the phrasing. _About home_.

Home. He doesn’t know the sign for flat, apartment, house. Diarmuid only taught him home.

“All right.”

Diarmuid is tense, sitting on the hard wooden stool next to the kitchen bench. His shoulders rise nearly to his ears, and still he won’t quite look David in the eye. David dwarfs the other stool, too tense to sit on it properly. He takes a deep breath.

_I have to leave_. That’s probably the wrong phrasing, again. Diarmuid taught him polite greetings and partings. Much of the rest is their own made-up, secret language. _I have to be alone_. A sentence Diarmuid showed him for when he has attacks.

“What?” Diarmuid hardly breathes the word.

_I’m a B-U-R-D-E-N_.

Diarmuid never taught him the sign for burden.

“No, you’re not,” Diarmuid insists, looking progressively more and more horrified as David continues to sign. His food lies abandoned, but Diarmuid isn’t signing. His hands look helpless at his sides as he compulsively pulls his sleeves over them. His brow is knitted with worry.

David shakes his head, signing slowly.

_I’m an A-D-U-L-T. I’m not a S-T-U-D-E-N-T. I can’t live with you_.

“You – I thought you …” Diarmuid swallows. His voice sounds quiet. “Did I do something wrong?”

_No. No_. Of course not, of course he couldn’t.

“So it’s just – I’m … immature. I’m … not a good … flatmate … for … an adult.”

No, God, that’s not how he meant it. He just doesn’t have the _words_.

“I thought we were – good. It’s not … Is it because of what I said last night?” There’s a tightness around Diarmuid’s mouth, now, an anxiety. His breathing is quick. “I didn’t mean to – make you uncomfortable. I never intended – I didn’t mean it like – I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I haven’t thought at all. Oh, God, I’m an idiot. I’m an idiot. Please, you can just ignore it. All of it.”

He’s babbling at the speed of light, now, and David can’t make head nor tail of whatever spiral it is that Diarmuid’s found himself on.

“No, wait – I mean – you’re not under any obligation to ignore it. Me. My – no, it’s – it’s fine. I understand, just – please, can we find you somewhere to live first? I couldn’t forgive myself if you went back onto the streets because of me.”

_Not your fault_ , David replies quickly. How Diarmuid has come to the conclusion that it _is_ , is beyond him. Diarmuid has a habit of taking others’ burdens on himself, though, so perhaps David should have been prepared for this.

_I have to leave. Soon. Not you_. _Not you_ , he repeats, trying to make the words go in.

“Right – right, of course. I just – sorry, I think I just – I’m going to go for a walk, I’ll see you later, okay?”

And with that, Diarmuid shoves his phone into his pocket, leaving his leftovers half-eaten on the bench, and dashes for the door. David watches him go, feeling miserably useless. He can’t make Diarmuid understand the truth – that he’s gone and done something unforgiveable, something that any outsider could tell him was wrong. Better for Diarmuid to hate him, and think him indecisive, inconstant. It must be.

Please, God, let it be.

Hours pass. David packs his backpack up. He tidies the house. Lies on his bed, staring at the ceiling. Ignores the intrusive idea of laying himself down on Diarmuid’s bed instead. Pushes himself out of the bed, wanders down to the belltower – now a laundry – and stands there, useless, itching, dark thoughts lurking in the back of his mind that maybe Diarmuid won’t come back. Outside, the wind moans. Goosebumps rise on the flesh of his hands.

Diarmuid returns to the house, though. Of course he does. But he moves like a robot. Stiff, smiling, and uncomfortable. David doesn’t know how to comfort him. The thought passes through his head that perhaps Diarmuid went away to cry, but he can’t see any signs of it on Diarmuid’s face – no puffy eyes, no red cheeks. There’s moisture, but that’s probably from the wind, which left their eyes streaming yesterday. David feels stupid for even considering it.

They pack up the rest of the house in strained silence, and return to the station equally as quiet. Diarmuid can barely look at David – every time he catches David’s eye, David sees a faint flush come over him. On the train, Diarmuid puts both his earphones in and closes his eyes, leaving David to listen to the rumbling of the train engine alone. Diarmuid leans onto the window, keeping his body separate from David. _It’s for the best_ , David thinks, repeatedly. _For the best_. _For the best_.

They get back to the flat within a few hours, hours which pass agonisingly slowly for David. They shuck off their jackets inside, and quietly put their things in their rooms. It’s probably a good thing that David kept his so spartan, considering how easy it’ll be to pack up. Still. He sits on the bed in silence for several long minutes, dredging up the will to do what he must.

But then there’s a knock at the door, and he startles. He gets up to answer it unthinkingly – and then hesitates in the hallway, where Diarmuid is already peering through the spyhole.

“Shit,” Diarmuid whispers. “Shit.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose with his fingers, screwing his eyes shut. “Not now, not now …”

At that moment he looks up, finally noticing David standing and watching him helplessly. Diarmuid’s eyes widen. He glances between the door and David helplessly, frozen with indecision. He takes a step towards David and begins to sign.

_It’s my mother_.

David’s eyebrows shoot up. In all the time Diarmuid’s complained about his mother – quietly longing for her all the while, that’s obvious too – the woman herself has never actually made an appearance. Money is how she makes up for not being there, isn’t that what Diarmuid had said?

_Do you want to see her?_

_No_ , Diarmuid signs, looking miserable. _Not now_.

There’s another knock at the door. Diarmuid tenses immediately, and David, in that moment, makes a decision.

_Go to your room_ , he signs, and begins striding towards the door.

“What?”

_T-R-U-S-T me_.

“… Okay,” Diarmuid whispers. He walks down the hallway and disappears into his room. David grabs a notepad and pen sitting on the hallway dresser – pausing to wonder where his jacket went, but there’s no time. He takes a deep breath and opens the door.

“Oh,” says the woman outside, looking perplexed.

There’s little enough of her in Diarmuid. She’s slim and a little short, like him, and has that same strong jaw. But there’s a steeliness in her posture and a hardness in her eyes that’s as alien to Diarmuid as anything. David looks at her and sees exactly how such a woman would raise a child like Diarmuid. With a hefty dose of shame. With confusion at his sensitivity. _Without_ what Diarmuid needed.

“My name is Sheila Ainsley,” the woman says, frowning at him. “I’m sorry, I’m looking for my son, Diarmuid. This is number seven?”

David nods.

“Then, if you’ll forgive me – is he in?”

David nods again.

“Well, I should like to see him,” Sheila presses, irritated. “I’m sorry, what was your name?”

David shakes his head.

“Excuse me?”

David writes on the notepad, _he doesn’t want to see you right now. Not a good time_.

Sheila blusters. “He’s my _son_. Who are _you_?”

_David_ , he writes. _A friend_.

“Well, you don’t look like one of those monks he’s obsessed with,” she snorts. “Can’t you talk?”

David shakes his head, stone-faced. Finally figured it out, has she?

“Whoever you are, I’m sorry, but I’m his _mother_. I have every right to see my son.”

_He doesn’t want to see you right now_ , David underlines, again.

“I see,” the woman says, coldly. “I’m afraid you’ll have to let me –”

But she doesn’t get the chance to finish. As she tries to force her way through the door, David raises an arm to block her, and then, gently as he can, pushes her back. He shakes his head again.

Once more, Sheila sputters.

“Excuse me! That is entirely uncalled for! I could have you arrested! For all I know you could be squatting here!”

Well, she’s not entirely wrong _there_.

But David simply shakes his head again, _no_. He can’t remember the last time he felt this calm in the middle of a fight. Despite Sheila’s infuriating behaviour – and despite the fact that he’s beginning to get the feeling that Diarmuid downplayed his mother’s treatment of him – David doesn’t feel his rage building. Only a calm sense of purpose: protect Diarmuid, and keep him safe from this woman.

He points down the road, a firm order. _Go away_.

For a few minutes more, she tries arguing, but David simply shakes his head, and points. Sheila grows more and more flustered, not seeming to notice the stares of passers-by. Eventually, she gets a text, and her eyes widen just marginally as she checks her phone. Something about it shuts her up, and she looks royally pissed off.

“You’re lucky,” she spits, “that _my son_ was able to contact me. I’ve a right mind to call the police.”

David points. Sheila huffs. But finally – finally, she leaves.

David closes the door on her back, and slumps in the hallway, feeling drained. _Diarmuid_. He needs to check on Diarmuid. He dumps the pen and notepad on the dresser – and where _is_ his jacket? – and walks down the hall to Diarmuid’s room, prepared to knock – but the door is open. Diarmuid must have been listening – that must be how he knew to text and intervene. The thought only briefly enters David’s head, though, before he notices –

His jacket. The one he always wears, the leather with its surprisingly soft inner lining, its fleece around the neckline. The one Diarmuid gave him.

That’s _his_ jacket that Diarmuid has wrapped himself up in. His arms around his middle. His eyes closed, something vulnerable in his face.

David hardly breathes.

Diarmuid sways a little where he stands. He pulls the sleeves tighter around him, running his hands along the seams. David wonders why he never touches them like that while David’s actually _wearing_ the jacket. The bottom drops out of his stomach at the thought of Diarmuid’s hands on him, and a yawning void, that thing that’s as much a part of him as his eyes, demands to be known.

Christ, Diarmuid’s hands. He’s always looked so young in the face, (but for his eyes,) yet the truth has always been so obvious in his hands. Strong hands. Hands which could have fed the masses once, David thinks. In some distant and forgotten time, when miracles like that were possible. Diarmuid would have taken bread and fed it to the starving with his own palms, pressed his fingers upon the mouths of the diseased and outcast and called them home. If they’d met in such a time, such a place, David thinks Diarmuid would have saved him with a single touch upon his unworthy body. Could be anywhere at all – but, oh, if only it could be his _mouth_.

He’s not supposed to be indulging these thoughts. He’s supposed to be severing himself from them (from Diarmuid, from home.)

There’s a shuddering sigh from inside the room. David looks up from Diarmuid’s wandering fingertips and sees, to his horror, that Diarmuid is crying. There are tears slipping down his cheeks, and he raises no hand to stop them from coming.

David must make some noise, some quiet thing – perhaps just a creak of the floorboard – because Diarmuid opens his eyes and turns to him in shock. He opens his mouth as if to speak, but David doesn’t care, doesn’t want to hear it. He just wants to stop Diarmuid from crying.

He steps forward and takes Diarmuid in his arms, and the dam breaks, Diarmuid muffling quiet, shuddering sighs into his chest. David feels his own eyes water as the desperation to make things better grows, widening the void inside of him. He rubs Diarmuid’s back, pulling him as close as he can get. He pretends like he doesn’t care why Diarmuid’s wearing his jacket.

“I’m sorry – I’m sorry, please don’t tell Brother Ciarán.”

Diarmuid’s voice is muffled by hiccups and hesitations, but David shakes his head, pulling back to look at Diarmuid. His hand follows, settling around the join of Diarmuid’s neck and shoulder, stroking Diarmuid’s cheek with his thumb. The other hand on his waist.

They haven’t been holding each other the way friends are supposed to. Does that mean something? How much of them is – is –

But God, it doesn’t matter. David doesn’t want to hold Diarmuid like a friend. He doesn’t want to clap Diarmuid on the back, make his face into a mask of stern understanding, like soldiers are supposed to do. He wants –

“I’ll take it off,” Diarmuid says, and it takes David a moment to remember what Diarmuid’s talking about. “I won’t wear it again, I’m so sorry – oh, God, I’m so embarrassed, I’m sorry.”

Sorry for what?

David ought to sign, but he doesn’t want to remove his hands from Diarmuid’s body. He shakes his head gently instead, and Diarmuid looks up at him through wet lashes, agonised. And David looks at him, at _Diarmuid_ , with his tear-stained cheeks, and his old eyes, and his strong hands, and David –

David kisses him.

He chases the intensity of his proximity to its inevitable conclusion; and for once, for _once_ , there’s a silent place in his head where the screaming lives.

There are warm and soft lips against his own, and Diarmuid’s cheeks under his hands, and nothing else will pull him away.

The stillness of the moment is broken only when Diarmuid moves his lips against David’s. It’s a deliberate action – an invitation, a welcome. Diarmuid strokes the shape of David’s mouth with his tongue, tentative and bold. The void inside David must mirror itself inside Diarmuid, because immediately – _immediately_ , they are both consumed with it, with the desperation to be closer.

David drags his hand through Diarmuid’s hair and pushes him until his back hits the wall, causing Diarmuid to gasp. David chases it, pressing him up against the plaster and roughly forcing his tongue inside Diarmuid’s mouth, and the incredible thing is that Diarmuid _takes_ it, making quiet, hungry noises all the while.

They cannot get close enough. It’s _not_ enough, God. Diarmuid pulls David in against his body even as David presses against him, seeking out the hard sensation of Diarmuid’s warm body against his own – the length of him, the beautiful feeling of his bones. Some distant part of David presses at him – _this is wrong_ – but then Diarmuid bites David’s lip, pulling on it slowly, like he’s wanted to do that for some time, all the while holding David’s jaw with shaking hands.

David’s own hands begin to roam – the one in Diarmuid’s hair tugging at the curls at the nape of Diarmuid’s neck; the one at his waist pulling up Diarmuid’s shirt to feel his skin. Diarmuid gasps again – David’s hand must be cold – but then he moans, as David scrapes his fingernails over Diarmuid’s back.

David follows the line of Diarmuid’s jaw with his lips in apology. He kisses his way down Diarmuid’s neck, sucking harder when he feels Diarmuid tense against him and cry out. He feels frenzied, overcome – so aroused it almost hurts. Diarmuid gets one leg around his body, and rolls his hips. The distinct sensation of Diarmuid’s arousal makes David want to drop to his knees then and there.

_We can’t_.

A voice David has been trying to ignore, trying to placate with the wave of arousal that is threatening to pull them both under, cannot be ignored any longer.

They can’t.

David pulls back.

They look at each other, breathing heavily. Diarmuid looks – Christ, but he looks beautiful, messy and aroused. But the expression on his face quickly changes to one of confusion.

David can only imagine how he must look – as horrified as he feels? As desperate?

“I’m sorry,” Diarmuid whispers. “I’m sorry.”

He moves away from the wall, and shucks off David’s jacket. For a moment he holds it, standing very still. He sets it down deliberately on the bed, and stares at the floor as he walks away. David hears the front door click shut behind Diarmuid as he goes.

It’s then that he slowly slides to the floor, numb.

What was he thinking? Letting his lust get the better of him. It’s one thing, to love – to _be in_ love with that which God (or whoever, whoever, he’s never known or cared) never meant him to have – but to covet, to _crave_. To comfort Diarmuid with this awful thing inside him. _That’s_ unforgiveable. Diarmuid doesn’t want him. Diarmuid can’t want him. But –

God, Diarmuid must want _something_ , to kiss him like that.

David closes his eyes, remembering the feeling of Diarmuid’s erection pressed into his hip. The hunger in Diarmuid’s voice as he cried out. Jesus, the way his hands pulled David in, closer, closer. Never enough.

David snaps his eyes open. He has to get out of this room. He has to –

Pack. He should be packing. He has to leave, immediately. He said he would, and God knows how Diarmuid’ll feel if he gets back and David’s still here.

But even as David robotically forces himself through the motions of packing up his clothes and few belongings, the whispers of questions he cannot answer continue to plague him.

Is Diarmuid just lonely?

Diarmuid certainly has every appearance of being a lonely person. He doesn’t have too many uni friends – David can count on one hand the few names that Diarmuid’s mentioned more than once. Diarmuid’s closest friends are a tiny group of middle-aged monks, and … David. So perhaps it’s just that David’s convenient. Diarmuid’s a young man. Of course he has wants. Of course he … feels things. David’s the one at fault, here, for ever getting invested. David’s just convenient. It’s nothing to do with him in particular.

But then, Diarmuid also wants to be a monk.

Which could fit David’s theory. Getting it out of his system might be how Diarmuid justifies going into such a profession. Priests do it, David’s pretty sure. One last hurrah before taking vows. And again, David’s the most convenient opportunity for that. And yet …

Diarmuid doesn’t finish uni for a year yet. If he wanted a last hurrah, he chose a strange time to do it.

So it comes down to the fact that David kissed him first. Diarmuid can hardly be blamed for continuing it, given how isolated he is. How lonely. It’s only natural that he should take comfort where it is given.

David is the one to blame. He should never have kissed Diarmuid.

Subconsciously, he raises a hand to his mouth, barely brushing a fingertip over his lips. He doesn’t know if it’s better or worse to know how Diarmuid kisses, and yet never have it again.

He zips up his backpack. It’s a large thing, holds pretty much all of his belongings. He takes a deep breath, and allows himself the indulgence of smoothing the bedsheets flat. The rage isn’t here, now. Only a bone-deep longing he’ll never satisfy.

He pulls his copy of the keys out of his jacket pocket, but decides to keep the jacket. For practicality’s sake at least. The keys he puts in the bowl on the dresser. He checks that the door’s locked, and closes it behind him. He only hesitates on the doorstep for a moment before he turns and begins to walk.

“David!”

He freezes.

“Wait – oh my God, _wait_ –”

The voice is little more than a distant shout, but unmistakably Diarmuid’s.

David turns, wide-eyed, to see Diarmuid sprinting down the street, heedless of the other pedestrians, somehow needing to dodge parked cars. Waiting in stunned (though no less perpetual) silence, David can only watch as Diarmuid slows to a halt, huffing, right in front of him.

“I’m – so – sorry,” Diarmuid wheezes. “Don’t – go.”

David reaches out a steadying arm, clapping Diarmuid on the shoulder. He shakes his head, bewildered. _Don’t_ go? After the way David acted?

Diarmuid takes a few deep breaths, struggling to get his lungs under control.

“I made a mistake,” Diarmuid begins, and David snatches back his arm, ashamed.

Diarmuid’s eyes widen. “No – no, not the – I mean I made a mistake by … leaving. Making assumptions.”

David frowns, shaking his head. He doesn’t understand.

“I erm, I went to see Brother Ciarán. To talk about some things. I wasn’t going to tell him, but then you – and we – and I just. I couldn’t keep hiding it from him, you know? He’s practically raised me, and I thought … even if he hates me, I have to be honest. I needed his advice.”

Brother Ciarán knows? Jesus, thank God David’s leaving then – he can’t imagine facing the man again.

“And – and we talked. And he doesn’t. Hate me, I mean. He said I’ve been blessed with something rare and …” Diarmuid’s mouth softens into a shy smile. “… and beautiful. He said I shouldn’t be ashamed. And I’m not, David, for the first time, I’m not. I thought I knew what I wanted, but it was something else all along. I know – maybe this isn’t what _you_ want, but I needed to tell you. I’ve been dancing around it all the time, I could barely say it to myself.”

_Say what_? David signs, hardly daring to breathe.

“I think I’m in love with you.”

A feeling rushes through him – like lightning – fear and awe, and _wonder_ –

_I think I’m in love with you_.

He can’t mean it. He can’t possibly –

“I know you,” Diarmuid murmurs, stepping closer. “I know you won’t believe me. You won’t believe I could love you, but – I do. David, I love you.”

He can hardly hear Diarmuid’s rambling, now. The words flutter around his head like moths about a flame. _I think I’m falling in love with you._

_David, I love you_.

“I thought you knew already,” Diarmuid admits. “I thought – at Kells, when we watched the stars. I tried to tell you. I thought that’s why you were leaving. Was … was I wrong?”

Dazed, David brings himself to nod. Diarmuid couldn’t possibly have been more wrong.

“I didn’t want you to feel like you had to put up with my feelings because you needed somewhere to stay. But now I … Brother Ciarán made me realise that I don’t know how you feel at all.”

Diarmuid swallows, waiting for an answer. David can’t think.

“Please. Please, David, tell me – something. Anything.”

But there’s so much – so much David understands now. Diarmuid’s done everything to make him stay – to make a home for him. It’s about time David did half as much of loving as Diarmuid has.

He feels the cold air against his skin, and the warmth of the sun, steady underneath it all. He listens to the traffic in the distance, and the rustling of the trees coming back to life as Spring takes its course.

He smiles. Takes a hand and presses it against Diarmuid’s heart, feeling it beat, fast and strong inside his chest. And he keeps feeling it, listening to it speed up, listening to its beautiful rhythm jolt as David leans in and kisses Diarmuid. There’s no urgency this time. No desperation. Just – a still and lovely peace.

Diarmuid smiles into the kiss, and, unable to help himself, laughs as he covers David’s hand with his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> David: Diarmuid is obviously kissing me because he has NO OTHER CHOICE. 
> 
> I couldn't resist just a little more miscommunication.
> 
> BUT THEY FIGURED IT OUT LADS. THEY FIGURED OUT HOW TO BE IN LOVE AND HAPPY AND EXTREMELY SEXUALLY ATTRACTED TO EACH OTHER.
> 
> The next chapter is more of a denouement/epilogue than anything, but there WILL be sex, so ... stay tuned.
> 
> Also, due to some recent RL happenings I'm just gonna link to [my Tumblr](https://gallantrejoinder.tumblr.com/post/184027559166/so-today-something-bad-happened/) again!
> 
> Thanks for all your comments as always <3


	8. Chapter 8

David comes home.

He enters the flat with his hand in Diarmuid’s, and the wonder of that sticks in the forefront of his mind so long that he doesn’t realise Diarmuid’s leading them both towards his bedroom until they’re standing outside the door. Diarmuid stops where they are, nervously biting his lip. Behind him, the door to his room looms wide.

“I don’t – I don’t want to presume anything. If you want to come inside and just – be together, we can do that. I’d love to just … be with you, in whatever way you want,” Diarmuid explains.

Perhaps David should feel a little ridiculous, considering the fact that Diarmuid is the least experienced between the two of them, but instead he only feels gratitude. Diarmuid takes care of him so instinctually, even in this. And considering how long it’s been – well, it’s not a bad idea to check in at all.

None of this changes the fact that he wants Diarmuid so desperately he can hardly breathe.

He shakes his head slowly, before reaching out, trailing a hand down Diarmuid’s stomach, coming to rest in the space between Diarmuid’s hips, just above where he wants it to be. Diarmuid’s breath stutters.

“Or,” he says, in a breathless tone, “we can do that.”

Diarmuid pushes open the door and pulls David in behind him so fast that David can’t help but smile.

The door is unceremoniously shoved shut, and Diarmuid wastes no time in pulling David into a bruising kiss against it. In a single moment, David feels the air between them turn from affection and quiet disbelief at their luck, to pure, unadulterated _want_. He sinks his teeth into Diarmuid’s neck and sucks at the spot, and Diarmuid goes limp beneath him, a sigh coming from somewhere deep inside him. David kisses the length of Diarmuid’s neck, feeling Diarmuid pulling him in closer. Diarmuid wastes no time pulling off David’s jacket and slipping his hands underneath David’s shirt, where they wander over his back, dragging fingernails along his spine. It feels electric – like being a teenager again – David’s body responding like it’s been asleep for a long, long time. It isn’t long before he’s hard. He can feel Diarmuid’s body responding in kind.

It should last, this first time. It should go for hours and hours, them knowing each other – taking each other apart in turn, pressing into one another, loving one another. But David has wanted this for so long, and they have time for that – all the time in the world. They can afford to give in to need, just this once. David pushes Diarmuid to the edge of the bed, and Diarmuid sits, legs spread, eyes never leaving David’s face. And then David sinks to his knees, Diarmuid’s gaze following him down.

David doesn’t even try to take off Diarmuid’s clothes. He unbuttons and unzips Diarmuid’s jeans and looks up, to see the breathless expression on Diarmuid’s face and the wordless nod – that’s all he needs, all either of them need, having wanted each other for so long.

He leans forward to press worshipful kisses to Diarmuid’s stomach, gripping his hips to hold him still. Up close, Diarmuid smells clean, like soap. With his face to Diarmuid’s stomach, David catches the faint scent of laundry detergent in Diarmuid’s shirt and smiles. It’s – it’s _real_ , it means that this is happening, that this isn’t a dream. He could never have dreamed of the smell of Diarmuid’s shirt.

But he has a job to do. He tugs at Diarmuid’s underwear, and Diarmuid raises his hips, allowing David to peel them away. David looks at the sight laid out before him – Diarmuid, fully clothed, only his hips and his cock bare, obscenely displaying how badly he wants David in return. David’s hands tighten where they rest on Diarmuid’s hips. He might even leave a bruise … but only if Diarmuid wants him to. David looks up, and Diarmuid’s mouth is open. He takes tiny, stuttering breaths, leaning back on his hands like he can hardly hold himself up. His eyes do not leave David’s face, and they are wide, full of desire.

Still, David watches carefully for any sign that what he’s about to do is unwanted. He needs to see it. He needs to see that Diarmuid wants him like this – on his knees, or looming above him, _taking_ him, being taken _by_ him – in every way, through everything.

Diarmuid reaches forward. He puts his hand against David’s cheek and drags it down like he can barely hold himself back – and then he raises it once more, to tug on David’s hair, pulling him closer.

All the restraint that David’s been desperately clinging to evaporates. He knows he should go slowly – should tease this out, should kiss Diarmuid more, flick his tongue like it’s ten years ago and he knows what he’s doing. But he doesn’t. He opens his mouth and takes as much of Diarmuid in as he can, and the weight of it on his tongue feels better than any sacrament.

He’s sloppy. It really has been a while, and he can do better than this – and he will, he _will_ , he’ll show Diarmuid everything that this can be – but next time. He’s too hard for it right now. His cock is aching inside his trousers, and he reaches down with a hand to press his palm to it, ease the pressure. All the while he sucks, and licks, and keeps Diarmuid still with his other hand, pressing Diarmuid to the bed. He can feel that Diarmuid wants to move his hips – they stutter in aborted half-movements – but he tightens his grip, and Diarmuid moans, like that was what he wanted all along, to be held down and adored.

David pulls back to concentrate his efforts on the head of Diarmuid’s cock. If the sounds Diarmuid is making are any indication, Diarmuid likes it like this – having every tiny noise teased out of him, pulled from his throat without mercy. The thought of it sends another throb of heat to David’s groin, and a sound comes from his own throat without his permission.

“Oh – oh, _God_ –”

That’s as much warning as David gets before Diarmuid comes. Thank God David’s done this before, because it takes all of his concentration to swallow down. Thank God too, that Diarmuid tastes – oh, normal, of course, nothing more than that. But in his heart of hearts, David knows that Diarmuid tastes like nectar, like manna, like ambrosia. He wants it like this, he wants to swallow every time if he can, that he’s selfish for any part of Diarmuid he can get.

He sits back, breathing heavily. His cock is still straining in his trousers, and he won’t be able to hold out much longer. Diarmuid, having closed his eyes at the point of orgasm, opens them once more to behold David. For a moment, there is such blinding love in his eyes that David forgets to breathe.

And then Diarmuid reaches down, grabs David’s shirt, and yanks him up and onto the bed.

He pulls David in to kiss, before fumbling with David’s zipper and underwear, desperate to touch him. The realisation of that thrills David – but not for long, because the world itself falls away when Diarmuid gets his hands on David’s cock.

It doesn’t take long. David may have only rediscovered this side of himself recently, but he’s wanted Diarmuid for much longer than he’d allowed himself to admit. So when Diarmuid finally touches him – uses those clever hands, hands that set him free – to bring the sweet pleasure of loving each other to its inevitable peak, it feels like releasing a breath that he’s been holding for longer than he can remember. It feels like benediction. It feels like peace.

Diarmuid kisses him. They press their foreheads together in the afterglow, and lie there in the quiet light of the afternoon, still almost fully dressed, but no less naked in spirit.

After a little while, Diarmuid pulls back to look at David.

“You know,” Diarmuid says, a mischievous look on his face, “I think I could go for another round of that.”

David cracks a smile at that, though he wants to sign something about _fucking youths_. And then he laughs the wheezing excuse of a thing he has for a laugh – and for once doesn’t mind, because Diarmuid laughs too, and then there is more kissing, more touching, more time, and fewer barriers between their bodies –

In short, there is love. And it is the kind of peace that David’s never known.

 

~

 

One day, many, many months into the future, David gets a letter. Apparently, he’s qualified for disability assistance. It takes some time for him to react, sitting there with the letter in his hand one morning, but when the news sinks in, he immediately tells Diarmuid. Diarmuid is delighted – and though he makes a token protest, David firmly insists on starting to pay his part of the rent. He’s been staying there free for long enough. And anyway, Diarmuid’s nearly finished his course. Perhaps, between the two of them, once Diarmuid’s employed, they can get a place of their own. Somewhere untainted by Sheila’s money. Somewhere Diarmuid won’t need to keep on her good side.

Diarmuid set David free. David only wants to return the favour.

And the money gives David something else, too. It’s with a deep breath of apprehension that he signs up for his first ISL class, but still, he does it. The classes themselves are free, run by a volunteer group from the university. They’re across town, which means David needs to take the bus there to get on with any regularity. And, more to satisfy Diarmuid’s anxiety than anything, he needs a phone if he’s going to be leaving Diarmuid regularly. He buys a cheap thing, cheapest on the market, with a basic plan. But it’s enough – David’s never been on the cusp of future technology, by any means.

The first ISL lesson is easy, he knows it all from Diarmuid. In fact, he feels a little disappointed at having bothered, until the teacher comes up to him after class and signs –

_I think you need something more advanced_.

The look on her face isn’t pitying – it’s impressed.

_I know a little. But not enough. I’m mute_ , David explains.

She makes a noise of sudden understanding.

“Oh, of course! Well then, let me have a chat to a couple of the other tutors – perhaps something can be arranged.” She signs as she talks, but David appreciates the effort.

So it is that a week or so later, he receives a text from an unknown number offering private tutoring at no cost to himself, twice a week, at the university. When he shows Diarmuid the text, Diarmuid grins and kisses him soundly on the cheek. David wonders at it, at the blessings he’s been gifted with.

The next few months he spends catching up on all the signs Diarmuid hadn’t been able to teach him. The thought of entering the workforce again still makes him nervous, but it’s a step forward. It’s something. And it makes Diarmuid proud.

The university people also put him in touch with a therapist, one who knows ISL. She’s not free, but she accepts payment on a sliding scale, and his disability card makes it just about affordable. The first session he has with her is basically just a retelling of his life story, and he almost doesn’t see what the point was. But to his shock, when he gets home, he shakes so badly that he shuts himself in his room before he even thinks about it. Diarmuid arrives home within the hour and finds him drained, curled up in bed. Wordlessly, Diarmuid slides into bed with him and holds him still.

It gets a little easier. Next time, he brings Diarmuid. That helps. And the time after that, he goes alone again, and she starts to teach him how to tame his rage. _Just_ starts, mind. But it’s better, so much better – and the first time he successfully manages to breathe his way through an attack, never feeling the veil descend, he cries with relief.

He tells Diarmuid that he’s been hurting himself, and Diarmuid cries, and David hates himself for it. But they talk about it. They agree to try the things the therapist has suggested – harm reduction, leading to a tapering off altogether. He hopes it’ll be enough.

The fact that he dares hope at all is, he reflects, a kind of progress in itself. Telling his therapist of that realisation is _definitely_ progress. She agrees with him – but more importantly, so does Diarmuid. With Diarmuid at his side, David is learning that hope is never impossible.

 

~

 

It’s a very long time before David goes back to work.

To go back to work, for starters, he has to get some qualifications, seeing as all his previous ones are useless without the power of speech. He sits on it for a long time before deciding to go into IT work. Diarmuid is surprised when he first brings it up with him – David’s never been all that interested in technology – but it’s … steady work, decent work. Quiet work, that will have plenty of jobs available for someone who can’t talk.

So he enrols in a course. He starts taking classes, and his situation from Diarmuid from when they’d first met is reversed – David going to school instead of Diarmuid. Diarmuid, by this point, has a job of his own. A decent-paying kind of job, as a social worker – just like his course had prepared him for. Maybe he really has been destined for this all along, never intended for the brotherhood.

With Diarmuid’s job comes the first opportunity of Diarmuid’s life to be free of his mother. And that is not something Diarmuid grapples with easily – David has to listen to many, many anxiety-ridden rambles on the subject of Sheila, and whether it’s worth it to keep in contact with her. It takes six months of work and money coming in for Diarmuid to decide to cut her off. When she doesn’t respond to his carefully-worded, far too sympathetic letter … he only cries once. And then he breathes out shakily into David’s shirt, and whispers, _it’s done_.

 

~

 

They grow together for many years before David proposes.

It’s only right that he should. Diarmuid spent so long begging David to stay – it’s David’s turn to be the one who asks. It’s his turn to be brave.

It takes a long time to save up the money necessary for rings, though they’re nothing particularly fancy – simple wedding bands, made of traditional gold. Trying to get Diarmuid’s ring size is a challenge at first, until David realises that his pinky finger is about the width of Diarmuid’s ring finger. That clue comes to him when Diarmuid starts playing around at a market stall, trying on jewellery and laughing …

Well, perhaps Diarmuid _has_ been dropping hints.

David waits for the crispness of an Autumn day, the air filled with grey clouds and red, red leaves. He doesn’t tell Diarmuid where they’re going, and covers Diarmuid’s eyes for the last block or so of the journey. He only lets Diarmuid see where they are when they’re right outside the blue door to Brotherhood of Our Lady Help of Christians Mental Healthcare Services.

(… And David still finds that name ridiculous.)

When Diarmuid sees where they are, he turns to David with a question in his eyes.

David goes down on one knee, and pulls out the ring.

And, as always with Diarmuid, he doesn’t have to say a word. Diarmuid says _yes, God, yes_ , and David barely gets the ring on, feeling his face split into a grin of pure, unadulterated joy, before Diarmuid leaps into his arms and they are in love, they are in love, _they are in love_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... Holy shit ... It's done, oh my god. I'm sorry this chapter took so long, I fell into an obsession with DGHDA and Good Omens. As you can probably tell by my profile. Thank you so so so much to everyone who commented on the chapters as they came out, and who made me feel so welcome in this fandom  <3 It's been a wonderful ride with you all. Please let me know what you thought <3

**Author's Note:**

> [My Tumblr.](https://gallantrejoinder.tumblr.com/)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Always remember to tip your writer by commenting <3


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